


All Aboard

by sarahbeniel



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes hasn't gotten laid in a long time, But he has a smutty fantasy life, Darcy is a klutz, Everyone lives at the upstate compound, F/M, Happy Ending, Hmm the tags make this story sound a lot better than it is lol, Masturbation, Misunderstandings, Pining, Sam wants everyone to get laid, Steve is a Boy Scout (or is he), WinterShock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-04-23 14:13:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19152682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahbeniel/pseuds/sarahbeniel
Summary: A somewhat fluffy, somewhat angsty, hopefully funny (at times) 5+1, or, "5 times Steve jumped up to help Darcy, and the first time Bucky stepped up instead."  The Plus-1 goes on for three chapters, at the end.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was developed from a "three things" prompt for the Marvel Summer Fun and Fluff Fest on Tumblr.
> 
> "Grass - Hesitation - Honey"
> 
> I sort of skimped on the "grass" part-- blink and you'll miss it.
> 
> I tried to keep this light and fun, though Self-Loathing!Bucky did try to take me for a ride on the Sad Train to Angst-Town, as he is wont to do.  
>  

 

 

Sam Wilson was sharp. Maybe _too_ sharp; the guy was a master when it came to social interactions. It’d made him the obvious choice to be Bucky’s support guy for his social-skills practice time, but it came along with the unfortunate side-effect that the guy didn’t miss a damn thing. 

“See somethin’ inner-esting?” he said now, with a smirk, as he bumped his knee into Bucky’s. He was sitting in between Bucky and Steve on one of the overstuffed leather couches in the cocktail lounge, which gave them a perfect view of the bar. Bucky scowled and moved a few inches down the couch to get away from him. 

“Just waitin’ to see what kinda heroics Steve here is gonna pull outa his ass this time,” he grumbled. “As if he even had to do any of that to impress a girl; he just gotta stand there and breathe.” 

He hadn’t meant to sound so sour about it, and now he was staring fixedly at the glass coffee table, so he missed the way Sam’s eyes rolled subtly. 

“Now you know how I felt, all those years,” said Steve, unwilling to take any shit from Bucky when the man was in a full sulk. Bucky had his issues, to be sure, but if he really couldn’t see how attractive he still was, then he had his head farther up his own ass than Steve had realized. 

“Anyway,” said Steve, as he set his empty beer bottle down, “I ain’t interested in Darcy that way. I mean, she’s a sweet girl an’ all, but she ain’t my type.” 

Bucky knew that Steve had to be lying, because Darcy would be _anyone’s_ type, unless the person lookin’ at her was a goddamned fool. He snuck a glance at her again, where she was sitting there at the bar, laughing as she talked to some blonde-haired lady from the tech department. The girl was fucking perfect: sweet and smart-mouthed and with a smile that lit up any room, not to mention a body like a goddamn Coke bottle, which was especially noticeable tonight, in that little red dress… _fuck_. 

The truth was, Darcy Lewis was a human disaster. If something could be tripped over, her feet would find it. Need something dropped, spilled or broken? Give her a call. Faux-pas to be made? She— or rather her very active mouth— was at your service. 

Some people found it irritating— off-putting; a sign of some kind of mental defect— but Bucky loved it. There was something undeniably charming about watching someone so damn pretty also be more _human_ — more flawed and fallible— than just about anyone he’d ever seen, himself included, _and_ (and this was the kicker) be totally okay with it. She’d shrug her mishaps off with a laugh and a smile, and keep on truckin’. People could learn a lot from Darcy. 

Her behavior was just so _real_ that she made it seem like everyone else was pretending— putting on a superficial show of capability and perfection that was ultimately meaningless, because it was all a fucking sham. Darcy was the real deal: what you saw was what you got— and before long, he’d found his eyes following her around any space she’d entered, utterly charmed by her carefree energy. She brightened his fucking day. 

Sam had been onto him immediately, the asshole, but Bucky had lied to himself at first, saying he was merely observing… taking mental notes from someone who seemed totally at ease with herself. But eventually, even without Wilson’s incessant shit-stirring, he’d come to understand that he’d fallen for her— hard. 

It was a surprise. He hadn’t had feelings like this— physical, emotional feelings— for a woman since he’d broken away from Hydra, and it was a bit unnerving, because he had no idea what to do about it. 

He knew nothing could come of it, but feeling his body wake up and respond as well— in a way that he didn’t think would ever happen again— had been just as surprising. Sure, he knew the equipment still worked, on a base, functional level— he’d had enough morning wood in the past year to build a bridge— but the way he felt when he looked at Darcy was different. 

It wasn’t just crass biology at work; it was a tightening in his stomach, his chest… a nervous energy that make him feel simultaneously excited and terrified. He found himself listening for the sound of her voice in the hallway, the signature vibration of her step, which he could distinguish from any other. 

It was a constant buzzing, a kind of nervous anticipation that had him connecting up with that guy from his past— the guy he used to be— more than any of his therapy sessions had even managed to do. It was feeling he could now remember, pretty clearly— that excitement of being in a smoky club, scanning the dance floor for a certain swish of a skirt, a particular pair of eyes, a toss of hair that would draw an involuntary smile onto his face… 

Even though he knew—in this case— that it was a dead-end, it’d still felt like some kind of private victory over those monsters who’d tried to unmake him, to utterly steal his humanity. To know that it wasn’t all gone… that he was still capable of feeling that way— about anything— felt like… like a fist unclenching somewhere, deep inside. 

What he _didn’t_ love was watching fucking Steve Rogers spring to her rescue every single time Darcy needed a hand, like the goddamned Boy Scout he was. It was gonna send Bucky to an early grave, because the truth was, _he_ wanted to be the one jumping up to steady her arm or pick up the broken glass, but he was too damn frozen all the time, too certain that she wouldn’t want that kind of attention from him: Bucky Barnes, a human disaster on a completely different level. 

And now, it seemed, all that effort on Steve’s part was finally paying off: they’d all noticed her sneaking peeks at the three of them over recent weeks, putting the eye on Steve, and tonight was no exception. Bucky figured the only thing keeping her from coming up to talk to the man in person, without the excuse of some crisis, was the lousy company he kept— namely, one used-up old assassin with a laundry-list of physical- and mental-health problems. 

She looked pretty tonight. Hell, she always looked pretty… but tonight, for the little reception Stark had thrown for that Parker kid joining the team (only a Stark enterprise would insist that a quasi-military facility out in the wilderness include a full-service cocktail lounge), she’d put on a cute little above-the-knee dress, cinched at the waist and then flaring at the hips to show off her shape. It was the color of ripe cherries, her big red lips painted to match, and Bucky couldn’t help stealing peeks at her from across the room every chance he could get, trying to time them so they weren’t coinciding with her own peeks across the room at Steve. 

Just looking at her from across the room— taking in those gorgeous curves, and the look on her face when she laughed— had been enough to stir his body, and if he didn’t knock it off, he was gonna have to leave… go back to his room and take care of himself. He was still on the clock for another twenty minutes of prescribed social interaction time, and he didn’t know if he was gonna make it. 

It’d been part of the deal, when he’d gotten the all-clear to finally move out of the shared situation with Steve, and into his own room. The lingering concern, from both his friends and his therapist, had been that he’d end up isolating himself whenever he wasn’t working, and he’d had to concede that their worries weren’t unjustified. So he’d agreed to it— a certain amount of non-work-related social time per week. They’d been dialing the minimum amount up, gradually, over the past two months. 

It wasn’t that bad. He still wasn’t up for any real socializing beyond Sam and Steve, but they didn’t push him to mingle or anything. He was able to observe interactions from a distance, to work up to more interactive stuff at his own pace. 

This was a little different though, this party: just being in a room with this many people all crowded together, when it wasn’t part of an op— no assigned, predictable duties or expectations for the people involved— it was a big step up for him, stretching him almost to the limit of his comfort level. 

Still, he appreciated the perks he got from the situation, even if it wasn’t always comfortable. Namely, getting to see Darcy, whom he’d never get to see at all, if he’d spent all his time hiding in his room. She seemed to show up all over the non-restricted areas of compound: in the break room, the workout room, the lounge for movie nights… the outdoor areas, like the pool or the field next to it, where people sometimes scraped up impromptu games of football or tossed a frisbee around, now that the weather had gotten nice. 

Sam was still yammering— fortunately, he’d given Bucky a break, and had turned his attention to Steve. 

“Well, what about Carter, then,” he was saying, as Steve rolled his eyes. “I _know_ you like _her_. Don’t go tryin’ to deny it. You even try askin’ her out yet?” 

“But ain’t that… I dunno, kinda weird?” asked Steve, his eyes sweeping across the room. He finally found her— Sharon Carter— she was deep in conversation with Maria Hill, but she caught his eye and smiled for just a second before fully focusing on Maria again. Steve cleared his throat. “Her bein’ Peg’s descendent an’ all?” 

Bucky followed Steve’s line of sight to pick out the tall blonde. He, for one, was hoping Steve would ask Carter out. Even he could sense the chemistry between them, and thought, stupidly, that maybe it would give him a chance with Darcy if… 

_If what, dumbass? If you were the last eligible guy at the compound? You think even that would be enough to overcome all the stains on your character? Keep dreamin’, old man_ … 

“I mean,” Steve continued, “I got the impression some folks would find it kinda… creepy.” 

“Yeah,” said Sam, dryly. “That’s you, through-and-through. Cap’n Creepy. Makes me sick, the idea of it. You’re disgusting, you know that? He’s disgusting— right, Barnes?” 

“Goddamned disgrace,” said Bucky, without looking up, doing his part, knowing that the banter would still worm its way into Steve’s psyche, even when he knew exactly what they were doing. 

“Fuck the both of you,” said Steve, but he was grinning as he pushed himself up. “I’m gettin’ another beer.” 

He’d gotten his fresh beer and was about to head back to the couch, but was stealing another glance at Carter— maybe reconsidering, after the way his friends had teased him— and just then, Darcy Lewis stepped backward, away from her seat at the bar, still laughing at some joke even as she moved without looking, and she crashed straight into Steve’s big body, spilling her entire drink down the front of her dress in the process. 

Bucky and Sam watched the entire tooth-rotting encounter unfold in front of their eyes, Bucky taking another swig of beer, while Sam just shook his head in disbelief. _Here we go again_. 

Darcy had shrieked at the moment of impact— the liquid was freezing, and a couple of half-melted ice cubes had actually slipped straight down her cleavage. Steve, for his part, instantly went into _Earnestly-Helpful_ mode, with a heaping side-order of _Everything-is-My-Fault-and-it-Makes-Me-a-Little-Irresistible_ — the latter trait conveyed entirely through an artful arrangement of his eyebrows. It wasn’t even intentional— Steve didn’t seem to be aware he was doing it— which just made it more potent, because it bolstered his reputation as a _Sincerely Good Guy_. Bucky wanted to puke, it was so goddamned sweet. 

With his enhanced hearing and his lip-reading skills, Bucky could follow the entire stupid conversation from across the room. It was like the ‘meet-cute’ (as he’d learned it was called) in some awful romantic comedy, like one of those movies some of the ladies liked to watch in the lounge on Saturday nights. He knew, because Steve and Sam had forced him to sit through a few of them for his social-skills time. 

Those movies were his bane— as much as he rolled his eyes at them, they also reminded him of everything he was missing out on, stuck forever in this ravaged, remade body, and with a history that made him unsuitable for anyone’s more tender considerations, even if there’d been anyone actually interested, which there wasn’t. 

Sam and Steve disagreed about the ‘unsuitable’ part— tried to use his buckets of fan mail as proof— but Bucky knew what he knew. All those fans were just seeing the surface, or maybe a made-up person they thought they knew— not the real thing, the messy reality, and the tease of it just made it crueler in a way. It was better when he was realistic about it— when he didn’t allow himself to hope for something he could never have. 

“Omigosh,” Darcy was saying, in her sweet voice. “I’m so sorry, did I get any on you?” 

“Here, lemme,” said Steve, as he offered her a bar towel to blot up the spill down the front of her chest, and then, realizing he was getting an eyeful of cleavage, blushed and turned his head, like he was afraid his eyeballs were gonna burn out. 

Bucky actually made a scoffing noise and Sam snorted. “Captain America,” Sam said to him out of the side of his mouth. “Defeated by a plunging neckline.” 

“Sorry about your drink, Darcy,” Steve said, as she took the towel from him. “I, uh… I just got a brand-new beer— you want it?’ 

When she faltered he said, “I didn’t touch it yet,” as he held it out to her, and then there it was, that pretty little smile and her sassy mouth… 

“You got a problem with our mouths bein’ in the same place?” she teased. “I would’ve taken it anyway…” And then she accepted it from him and took a long swig with those big, red lips… 

Bucky couldn’t take it anymore.

“I gotta go,” he said roughly, and he jumped up and got out of there so he wouldn’t have to listen to Steve’s boneheaded reply to her obvious flirting. He still had fifteen minutes to go on socializing, but he didn’t give a shit; he figured he’d go socialize with his own hand instead, since that was probably the only thing that was ever gonna get anywhere near his dick in the foreseeable future. 

He was completely fed up with himself by the time he got back to his room. What a dope— running off like that, with no plans other than to jerk off and go to bed alone, like always. When he got into the room he went straight to the bathroom instead, and splashed his face with cold water, willing his body to calm the fuck down, trying to purge his mind of the vision of her pretty face, her body in that cute little dress, the sound of her voice, so playful as she’d teased Steve… 

God, he hoped Steve wouldn’t walk her back to her place, like the fuckin’ gentleman he was. He could picture the whole damn thing: the way Steve would politely decline her invitation in, just to show her he wasn’t some kinda cad, but then allow himself to be persuaded, and then… 

He consoled himself with the fact that at the rate Steve was going, he’d be lucky to make it to first base by the end of the next decade. They’d probably sit on her couch and share stories and then Steve would wish her a good night and leave. Fuck, what a waste. 

The cold water wasn’t enough, and after leaning forward for a few minutes, his palms braced on the vanity, he finally sighed and unzipped, took his body in hand— hating himself, but resigned to it… getting it over with. 

He was thinking about her lips, the way they’d looked as she’d taken that first swig of Steve’s beer, her sassy eyebrow wag… thought about what it’d be like to flirt back, the way she wanted… the way Bucky was pretty sure he used to be good at… 

_‘You got a problem with our lips bein’ in the same place?’_

_‘Got all kinds o’ problems with you, doll, but ain’t none of them gotta do with your lips…’_

In his new version of the scene, the one where she was flirting with him instead of Steve, he’d moved in, taken the bottle out of her hand so he could step in even closer, threading his hand into that gorgeous brown hair as she smiled at him, so pretty… or no— he’d put his hand under her chin, tip her face up just enough so that he could lean down, brush his lips over her mouth, taste the remains of the beer on those sweet red lips as she sighed into him… 

He exhaled abruptly when he came into his hand, keeping his eyes shut as he deflated inside, the daydream dissolving along with his dignity, and when he finally opened his eyes and looked at himself in the mirror, he was thoroughly disgusted by what he saw: the tired face, the scars, the dead eyes… 

_What a joke_ , he thought. _You ain’t that guy anymore. Ain’t never gonna be. This is as good as it’s gonna get_. 

He turned on the shower and stepped into it, cold.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not a huge fan of MCU Steve/Sharon (they make sense in the comics, but their thing in CA:TWS was just stupid and reeked of a token need to make Steve straight) but for the purposes of this fic, lets just pretend Steve and Sharon actually have some offscreen chemistry.
> 
>  
> 
> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one.
> 
>  
> 
>  

 

 

She could hear voices in the break room, but she forged ahead, focused on the mission Jane had sent her on. Operation Pop-Tart-Raid was a _go_ , regardless of whichever personnel she had to deal with. 

_Oh_ , she thought, as she entered the room, flustered in spite of her resolve, when she saw who was sitting at the island, because it was _them_ : The Triple Threat. 

It’d been hard enough, with the eye-candy that was Sam Wilson and Steve Rogers walking around together all the time, but once Bucky Barnes had come out of hiding and had added his own special flavor to their group, all of the common areas of the compound had become danger zones, because Barnes was basically the answer to all of her prayers; the man’s deadly combination of smoldering good looks and awkward puppy-dog hesitancy was _wayyy_ too much for her to handle. 

Not that she actively avoided the trio— quite the opposite, in fact, because apparently she was a glutton for punishment. Bucky Barnes was eye-candy of the highest order, and she was getting her fill at every opportunity, teasing herself with fantasies of what she’d do to him, if she ever got him alone… 

She wanted to climb into his lap, run her fingers through that beautiful, long hair… she wanted to know, first-hand, what that metal arm could do… she bet he could lift her entire body over his head with one hand, and didn’t _that_ give a girl ideas… 

Having known plenty about his history before she’d ever crossed paths with him, she’d never expected the man to be _shy_ , and seeing the truth of it in person was doing strange things to her… giving her urges that she shouldn’t be having about a 6-foot-tall assassin, like the need to stroke that scruff on his face and tell him he was a _good boy_ , the _best boy_ , and that she was gonna take _such good care of him_ … 

She’d been sneaking looks at him for weeks, and so far he hadn’t seemed to notice, though she was pretty sure Sam was onto her. 

She knew it couldn’t go anywhere— Bucky Barnes was a fricking legend, and she was just… _her_ — but she couldn’t help looking, anyway. It was like turning the corner in MoMA to see _The Starry Night_ by Van Gogh, hanging right there on the wall— you couldn’t stand before it and not stare, and then stare and stare and stare some more, because it was so goddamned stunningly beautiful that you sort of couldn’t believe it was real. 

“Hoo boy,” she said now, going for comedy to deflect her nerves, as she breezed into the room, using her hand to mime the obvious need to fan herself. “Do I need to call the fire department? Because it is _hot_ in here…” 

Steve looked around in confusion, raising his eyebrows. The air conditioning was cranked up to maximum, as it always was in the middle of summer, and if anything, the room was a bit on the chilly side. 

“I don’t think it’s hot,” he said, and he looked at Bucky, whose eyes were angled down, tracing designs on the island countertop with his fingertip. “You hot, Buck?” 

“ _Uh, yes_ ,” Darcy’s brain supplied helpfully. “ _Yes, he is_.” 

Bucky just ignored the question, and Steve looked at Darcy, concerned. “Maybe you’re coming down with something,” he said, while Sam just rolled his eyes and muttered something about, “ _and I wonder why I’m the only one who’s got a date this weekend_ …” 

Darcy giggled, though, and said, “You know, maybe I am… maybe I am.” 

She was heading for the cupboard that she knew held the Pop-Tart supply, when she pulled up short, eyeing a big rectangular bakery box on the counter next to the fridge. The lid was standing open. 

“Whoa,” she said, dramatically, her eyes popping as she pointed to it. “Is that _baklava?_ ” She sucked in breath. “Don’t answer that. Of course it is. I know what baklava looks like. I fucking _love_ baklava.” 

Sam was leaning back on his barstool a little, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Help yourself,” he said. 

“For real?” she asked, looking over her shoulder to verify. She caught just a second of Barnes’ gorgeous blue eyes looking her way, before he quickly looked down again. 

Darcy had to swallow down the warmth that spread over her body at the sight, because _fuck_ if that sweet shyness in such a powerful man didn’t dial her libido up to eleven, every single time she saw evidence of it. If they could weaponize that shit, Barnes would be Public Enemy #1. 

“Is it yours?” she asked Sam. 

“No,” he said, “but I’m sure whoever bought it won’t mind if you take some.” His eyes and his lips were crinkled up with humor. 

“Huh,” she said. “Well, if you’re sure…” 

“Go for it,” said Sam. 

So she did— she really did love baklava, and hadn’t had it in forever. She pulled off a piece of the sticky, many-layered pastry, which was cut into cute little rhombus shapes, each of them carefully separated from the other by thin strips of parchment paper. 

She was looking around for a plate or a napkin or something to put it on, but gave up, just cupping one hand under her mouth to catch the flaky bits of pastry and gooey, honey-coated walnut crumbles that dripped off as she bit into it. 

“Oh my God,” she said, unashamedly talking around a full mouth of food. There was no way to eat it delicately, and before long, her lips and fingers were coated with honey, little bits of chopped nuts and toasted phyllo dough sticking to them. She knew she must seem like an uncultured beast, but it was totally worth it. 

“That stuff is the fucking bomb,” she said, when she finally swallowed the last bite, licking her lips. “You gotta tell me who brought that in, so I can bribe them to bring more.” She was looking around for a napkin again, holding her hands away from her body, her sticky fingers splayed out. She supposed she could just bump the sink’s faucet on with an elbow or something, though she was tempted to lick her fingers first— rinsing off even one drop of that honey seemed like a crime. 

“Matter of fact—” Sam suddenly cut himself off, and Darcy still was so busy looking around, hands held awkwardly aloft, that she hadn’t noticed Bucky kicking Sam’s leg, hard, under the island. “It, uh… shouldn’t be too hard to figure out,” Sam finally said. 

“Cool,” she said, and then she gave up and started licking her fingertips, one by one. She glanced over to the island and saw Barnes swallow hard as he stared at her, his Adam’s apple bobbing, before he looked away again. 

“God, sorry,” she said, a little embarrassed. “I know I’m being totally gross here. What can I say; I come from a long line of peasants. It’s just there’s no fucking napkins anywhere…” 

“You need some help, honey?” said Steve, standing up, and Darcy laughed. 

“Funny you should say,” she said. “Honey’s the problem. If you could turn on the faucet for me…” 

“Sure thing,” said Steve. 

Bucky pressed his lips together as he watched the two of them smiling at each other over by the sink, Steve being so fucking helpful and polite— the perfect gentleman, as usual— and then Darcy giggled at something, and finally Bucky pushed up from his chair, the metal legs scratching noisily on the tile floor like fingernails on a chalkboard. 

“I gotta go,” he said. 

He jerked off in bed that time, not even bothering to fight it, his eyes shut as he lay on his back, re-living the image of Darcy’s lips sucking on her fingers, licking up the sticky honey on her skin, and Bucky pushed away the memory of Steve’s words, replacing them with his own, once again inserting himself into the scene instead: 

_You need some help, doll?_

He imagined the cloying taste of the honey on his lips as he slowly cleaned her fingertips with his mouth, one by one, taking his time, watching her eyes, how her lids were getting heavier, her breath picking up as he swirled each dainty finger with his tongue… his own index finger making tiny circles in the little drops of amber syrup that’d dribbled onto her chest, dipping his face down then, to lave it from her skin, pulling her blouse open to make sure he got it all… and her hands had dropped to his sides, sliding down and around, and he could feel them on his ass, hanging on, digging in, as he moved his mouth back up to her lips, so plump and sweet, sucking on the honey that clung to their corners, holding her face as he kissed her then, slow and deep, their mouths a swirl of heat, all wet and sticky, and there was nothing polite about it at all… 

He came with a vocalized exhale, sharp and sudden, and then lay there panting for a good minute, feeling like a total scumbag, before he finally reached over to grab some tissues from the box by his bed. He cleaned himself up, threw the tissues on the floor, and then reached over and turned off the light. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)   
> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one  
>  
> 
>  

 

 

“They’re called _‘Daisy Dukes’_ ,” said Sam, his voice like an Oracle imparting wisdom, snapping Bucky out of the stupefied, slack-jawed spell he was under as he watched Darcy Lewis jump into the air, her long brown hair streaming behind her in the breeze, her arm reaching in vain to catch a bright yellow frisbee. She missed by a mile and then she fell onto the grass, giggling as she rolled, laughing delightedly at her own ineptitude. 

It was a brutally hot day, but everyone was outside anyway, most of them having the day off for once, wanting to enjoy the sunshine and soak up some Vitamin D, which was hard to come by when you were usually covered head-to-toe in combat gear. 

Darcy had clearly dressed for the heat— she was practically naked, making Bucky feel he should go light a candle for the sun gods or something.

She had a thin white tank-top tucked into her shorts— if you could even call it a tank-top; it was more like a camisole— something that in Bucky’s day would have been classified as an undergarment, the lightweight fabric clinging to her shape, with thin little wisps of straps the only thing harnessing it to her shoulders. There was no way she could be wearing a bra underneath; it was like some kinda twenty-first-century fashion technology, somehow holding up her goods without any of the hardware, and it was like a fucking work of art. But the space-age camisole wasn’t even the problem. 

The real problem was the shorts. 

He’d never seen shorts like that in his life— the frayed legs were cut so high that you could see the pocket linings hanging out; there was probably only an inch of inseam remaining, showing off almost the entirety of her thick, creamy thighs. And, as if that weren’t already enough to do Bucky in, the view from the rear, if she moved a certain way, gave him a glimpse of the shadowy lines where her legs ended and the curves of her butt-cheeks began. 

He was gonna have heart palpitations. 

She was running back and forth on the grassy area next to the pool, barefoot, her cute little toes painted bright red, tossing a frisbee around with some of the interns, and her big, luscious breasts were bouncing in the camisole, and he was considering jumping into the pool just to cool down, even though the metal arm was a nightmare in the water, like dropping an anchor… 

He resisted the urge, not wanting to draw any attention to himself, though he did have to drop the newspaper he was reading onto his lap, to hide the massive boner that was impossible to disguise in his thin athletic pants. 

Even Sam wasn’t completely immune to the impact of her attire, though he was admiring the view in a more clinical manner— like a naturalist, appreciating a particularly pretty bit of foliage for the gift from mother nature that it was. That evolved, mature attitude hadn’t stopped him from stirring the pot, though, elbowing Bucky as soon as she’d appeared on the lawn in that _what-the-fuck_ of an outfit, giggling and shaking her long brown hair out after slipping her sandals off her feet. 

Bucky hadn’t been around long enough to know what she looked like in the other three seasons of the year, but he did know that Darcy Lewis was a vision in the summertime— a big happy smile on her face, running around in the sun like a carefree kid, her skin bared to the elements, a light sheen of sweat making it glow… 

Bucky couldn’t remember what it felt like to be that free— that happy— but seein’ it in someone like Darcy was the next best thing. It stirred something inside him that was hard to describe. Like he wanted to do things… get outa his room more. Crack open a beer and cook up some wienies on a barbecue… kick off his shoes, feel the grass beneath his feet… 

Steve, the dumbass, was totally indifferent to the glory, which was a travesty, seeing as how Bucky figured she’d probably chosen that delectable outfit with Captain Oblivious specifically in mind. Almost like she was upping the ante, seeing if the dope would open his eyes and take notice already. But no— stupid asshole was just sitting there poolside, preoccupied with some crap on his phone, as though the eighth wonder of the freakin’ world weren’t running around just a handful of meters away, like some kind of special favor from God… 

She’d looked over at them a few times, and Bucky found himself getting grouchy that her obvious affection for Steve had been totally wasted on the punk. Not that he wasn’t still jealous, but he couldn’t help feeling bad for her. What the heck was Steve’s problem? ‘ _Not my type_ ,’ my ass… What the fuck was he waiting for? God, what a putz… 

All of a sudden the frisbee whipped by, over the width of the pool, and Darcy, having made a valiant effort to jump up and catch it, lost her footing, stumbled gracelessly between the vacant poolside loungers lined up at right angles to theirs, and, windmilling her arms uselessly just a few strides away, fell backward into the pool with an enormous splash. 

He almost— _almost_ — jumped up from his recliner instinctively, but Steve finally manned the fuck up, beating him to it, and Bucky forced himself to relax as Steve crouched by the edge of the pool to make sure she was all right. 

“You okay honey?” he said, as she resurfaced, gasping, looking more embarrassed than distressed. Steve held a hand out to her— she’d fallen into the deep end, which was probably a good thing, but Steve’s hand was closer to her than the nearest ladder, so she accepted his help— placed her little hand into Steve’s big one, and let him help her get out. 

“Thanks, Steve-o,” she said, as he lifted her easily, once he’d moved his hands to her waist, and then he set her down gently on the pale, stone-paved patio surrounding the pool. She was soaked and dripping, looking like a drowned cat, and then Steve got a look at her body and quickly turned away, saying, “Shit, sorry,” and went off to get a towel for her. 

She was confused for a second, her face saying, “ _Huh?_ ” until she looked down at her chest and giggled and said, “Oops,” out loud, to nobody, really, as she moved her arms up to cover herself, because her camisole was pretty much transparent and clinging to every contour of her body.

She seemed more tickled than mortified, like it was just another funny, embarrassing thing that happened to her many times over the course of a typical day... and maybe it was.

Bucky didn’t know what kind of contraption was in there, holding everything up, but it was pretty much confirmed now that there wasn't a real bra underneath. In those few seconds before she’d moved her arms up, you could see everything— _everything_ — even from where Sam and Bucky were still stretched out on their loungers, and where they were now doing their best to _not_ make it obvious that they’d seen all of her business. 

‘ _Jesus_ ,’ said Bucky, anyway, under his breath, and he hadn’t even realized he’d said it out loud, until Sam looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Whats’a matter,” he teased, his voice low. “See somethin’ you like?” 

“Shut the fuck up,” he hissed, not wanting her to hear them talking about her like that— like a couple of dirty old men— but Sam just tittered and went back to his magazine like it was no big thing. 

Steve had had to run over to the pile of big fluffy towels at the shallow end of the pool, and now he was back, and he gallantly wrapped one around her body, like the fucking knight in shining armor he was, and she was practically batting her eyes up at him in thanks. Bucky wanted to gag, it was so sweet. He wanted to pointedly go back to reading his newspaper, but sadly it was still occupied with the important job of hiding his traitorous cock. 

Well. At least Steve was finally giving her the attention she deserved. Too bad she’d had to literally fall into the swimming pool, to get him to pull his head out of his ass. 

Her back was to him now— he couldn’t hear a word she was saying— but she must’ve been flirting with him or something, because Steve was smiling and nodding and looked just as charmed as he fuckin’ shoulda been all this time, for the privilege of having that girl’s attention. 

Bucky could see the little droplets of water on her shoulders, the sunlight reflecting off of them like tiny diamonds, adorning her like some kind of trailer-park princess, standing there in her soaked denim, bedraggled and barefoot… 

Beautiful… 

Bucky almost crumpled up the newspaper in his metal hand. 

“Somethin’ wrong?” said Sam, in a completely blasé voice. 

“I gotta go,” he muttered. 

“Uh huh,” said Sam without looking up. 

Bucky pushed himself up out of the lounger, holding the rumpled newspaper loosely in front of his crotch like armor, and stomped off without looking back, returning to the safety of the compound, away from the sunshine and all that glittered beneath it, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the patio, and the continued adventures of Steve Rogers’ pathetic mating rituals, playing out in slow motion right in front of his eyes. 

He really didn’t mean to jerk off again; it didn’t seem right, with the way things were headed— with her practically signing up to be Steve’s girl, if only the asshole would get with the program. 

But as he stood there in the shower, the lukewarm water running down his skin as he tried to cool off, his mind went back to that image, now seared into his memory, of those gorgeous breasts, so full and round and perfect, and before he could put a stop to it, he was feeling his hands on them, imagining the weight of them if he came at them from underneath… the darker circles of her nipples, visible for those few seconds through the soaked fabric, and he was cursing himself as some kind of degenerate, using the memory of her body like that, even as he gave into it, stroking his body as he once again replaced Steve with himself in the scenario… 

‘ _You okay doll?_ ’ he would’ve asked, _his_ hands settled into the dip of her waist, instead of Steve’s… 

And then in his fantasy, she looked up at him with those big blue eyes, eyelashes glistening with water droplets, her hair dripping and wet, separating into dark, wavy tendrils, splayed across her shoulders like she was some kind of water nymph, lips plump and moist and red, her voice pleading as she spoke to him... 

‘ _Can you help me with this? I'm all wet..._ ’ 

How could he not? 

He was helpless to it— the vision in his mind— and he obliged, pulling her wet shirt off, and just as he’d thought, there was no bra— just her beautiful, perfect breasts, and he could touch them, stroke them... feel the hardening of her nipples as she closed her eyes, leaning into his touch, saying his name... 

And then he was bending down to kiss them, and she was moaning as he ran his tongue over the darkening bud, sucking on it as she threaded her fingers through his hair, pulling on it, and he could feel the tug on his scalp, and she was crying out, or maybe he was, because he was coming hard, his breath gasping out with the release, his metal palm slamming into the wall, and then he turned and sagged against the tile, resting his forehead against it, feeling every bit as pathetic as his softening, flagging dick.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)   
> 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)

 

 

“We really gotta stop meeting like this,” said Darcy, as she sailed into the break room, and then she stopped to stare at the guys, sitting all in row at the island, all of them eating a bowl of cereal. All three of them had a ball cap on, each of them a different color. 

“You look like Huey, Dewey, and Louie,” she said, blinking. “I mean, but stronger. And hot.” 

Sam chuckled, but Steve furrowed his brow, confused, until Bucky quietly said, without looking up, “Who’s Donald Duck in this scenario?” which was enough to jog Steve’s memory. It was weird, sometimes, the stuff that Bucky remembered. 

“I dunno,” said Darcy, giggling as she thought about the question. “I mean, Fury’s the obvious choice, but since he’s not here…” She shrugged. “Who do you guys annoy the most?” 

“Ourselves,” said Bucky, sardonically, and he allowed himself a moment of warmth when his eyes flicked up to hers, just for a second— long enough to catch the smile on her face, responding to his joke. 

It was closest they’d ever come to a real exchange, even though they’d barely made eye contact, and it was over too quickly, as she swiveled around, fists on her hips. 

“I’ve been tasked with finding some ramekins,” she said. “Don’t ask me why, because I don’t know. I don’t suppose any of you guys would know where I might find ‘em?” 

“It’d help if I knew what a ramma-kin was,” said Steve, as he set down his spoon and wiped his hands on a napkin. 

“Yeah, I’ll be honest,” she said, “I had to Google it myself, because I had no idea what the fuck Jane was talking about. They’re like these little, ceramic— _whoa_.” 

She cut herself off mid-sentence the moment she saw the big bakery box on the counter. It was the same type as the last one, but the lid was closed this time. She turned her head slowly, looking sideways over her shoulder at the three men, raising one eyebrow, looking a little bit dangerous. Bucky was reminded of a gorgeous, slightly-scary brunette from a movie he’d seen long ago… the name long forgotten… 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” she said, and he couldn’t tell, at first, whether she was happy, or if she was gonna kill someone. “Please tell me that’s more of that awesome _baklava_ …” She breathed out a sigh. “Fuck, I almost came in my pants the last time.” 

Bucky choked on his mouthful of cereal, but Sam just grinned and said, “Help yourself. Take a whole plate of it, if you want. Don’t think anyone’s gonna mind.” 

“Huh,” she said, staring at the box. “Maybe I will. After I find the ramekins.” 

She went over to the cupboards and started rummaging through them, and Bucky could hear her saying cute little things like, “ _Now if I were a ramekin_ , where would I be?” He’d stopped eating his cereal, just so he could hear her voice instead of the sound of food crunching in his own mouth, and was trying to sneak looks at her, without being too obvious about it. 

Her back was to them now, and as she lifted her arms to reach up to the high shelves, one side of her white cotton cap-sleeved shirt came untucked from her skirt, a swishy little red thing that ended above her knees. 

Bucky had a strange relationship with fashion— he knew he’d been interested in it before everything happened, before he fell; the Bucky Barnes he _used_ to be had paid attention, had liked to look sharp. But as the Soldier, it got a little strange. Though he’d been exposed to changing times through his captivity, which spanned decades of evolving technology, cultural standards, and shifting boundaries— including how those changes affected fashion— he’d never processed the input with any more emotion than a computer. 

Once he’d broken programming, he’d had to catch up with the fact that women now wore things like _yoga pants_ and _mini skirts_ and _short-shorts_ , and the almost stranger experience that nobody else was walking around slack-jawed and stupefied by it. Well, maybe Steve had, but apparently he’d gotten over it by the time Bucky joined up with him again. 

Darcy’s style, in his opinion, was a perfect blend of both worlds— a nod to old-fashioned styles like a flared skirt or a cute little blouse with fabric-covered buttons, combined with modern hemlines and materials. Sometimes it was a mix-and-match of something classy and old-fashioned-feminine, paired with some scuffed-up sneakers, or the audacious (to him) barely-there camisole-as-top and tattered shorts she’d worn the other day, dressed up with fire-engine-red toenails that would have fit right in on a 1940s beach. 

She was reaching up higher, trying to paw through some rarely-used dishes on a high shelf, and the shirt was lifting up higher, exposing a little peek of skin above the waistline of her skirt, and God help him, but that was almost sexier to him than getting that eyeful of her chest the other day… 

The enticing little strip of skin disappeared a moment later, when she dropped her arm, frustrated, and whipped out her phone, swiping and tapping at it few times, and then holding it up to her ear as she paced around the room. Steve and Sam were both having third helpings of cereal, but Bucky just shook his head as the box was passed down his way. 

“Where the fuck are these things supposed to be?” said Darcy abruptly, into the phone, in lieu of any greeting, as soon as the person on the other end picked up, and Bucky dipped his head a little to hide the smile that wanted to sneak out. God, but he loved a sassy mouth. 

“Are you sure?” she was saying. “I’ve seriously looked everywhere… yes, _really_.” She swiveled around and rolled her eyes at the three of them, knowing that they knew it was a bald-faced lie. She’d barely checked even one of the cupboards thoroughly before giving up. “Okay, _fine_. I’ll look again.” 

She hung up and put the phone face-down on the counter, looking longingly at the bakery box. “Well,” she said. “She says they’re in here _somewhere_ , but she’s totally talking out of her ass, because I happen to know she’s never set foot in this room personally.” 

“Lemme help you look,” said Steve, pushing up from his barstool, because _of course_ he was gonna be helpful. 

“Awesome,” said Darcy, beaming at him. “You take the high ones, and I’ll take the low. What we’re looking for, I guess they’re like these little ceramic cups? Like… straight-edged, about yea big?” She made a circle with her hands, to approximate the right size. 

“Got it,” said Steve, helpfully. 

They started at opposite ends, checking the shelves thoroughly this time, and Bucky finally went back to eating his cereal, not wanting to watch as they got closer and closer to each other as they each neared the center of the counter space. 

He was trying not to look at her legs as she went up on her tippy-toes, needing the extra height even to reach the middle shelves. She was wearing a cute little pair of bright red T-straps with chunky heels, and Bucky had some pretty strong opinions about what they did to her calves. He would’ve been taking a good long look, if Wilson hadn’t been sitting right there, like some kind of thought-wave receiver, picking up on all of Bucky’s perversions, almost before he was even aware of them himself. 

“Found ‘em!” she said suddenly, with unrestrained glee, but as she tried to grab the little cups, she just wound up pushing them further back on the shelf, and she dropped her heels back to the floor, frustrated. 

“Hold up, honey,” said Steve. “Lemme get ‘em down for you.” 

He’d moved right up behind her, in a classic ‘ _Excuse-me-while-I-cage-you-in-with-my-manly-body_ ’ move that caused a frisson of memory to surface in Bucky’s brain: he knew _exactly_ how that move went, because he'd done it before, somewhere in his past. He was almost impressed, because it was a smooth move. 

Only Rogers was doing it wrong. He didn’t cage her in at all, instead murmuring, “'Scuse me, Darcy,” so that she helpfully moved out of the way— no risk of any body parts touching— and then he reached up to grab one of the little cups. 

“These the ones?” he asked her, holding it out so she could take it. 

Bucky had mixed feelings. On the one hand, he wanted to bang his forehead on the island, because it was such a clearly-missed opportunity that it made his head hurt. 

On the other hand, some petty part of his mind was saying, “ _Good_.” 

Now if _he’d_ been the one to do it— the one she was flirtin’ with— he’d have come right up behind her, so close that she could have felt the heat of his body, the rustle of their clothing brushing together, and he would have bumped his hips into her ass, just a little, like it was an accident… let his arm brush into her shoulder as he’d reached up above her… he woulda shuffled his feet a little, widened his stance… let her get a sense of how solid he was, right there behind her, let her feel his breath on the back of her neck… the offer clearly there, but leaving just enough room to let her be the one to decide… 

His dick was getting hard, just thinking about it… 

“You all right, man?” 

It took him a second, but he realized that he was just sitting there staring, his spoon held frozen in his hand— that Sam was looking at him with amusement. 

He blinked and shook his head and said, “Yeah,” looking quickly back down to his bowl. There was a little milk still there at the bottom and he picked up the bowl and tipped it up to his mouth, drinking down the few spoonfuls that remained, and then set the bowl back and licked his lips. He realized he probably had milk in his beard, so he wiped his face off with the back of his hand. 

Meanwhile, Mr. Wonderful had quickly and efficiently gotten down the half-dozen little white cups and set them on the counter, lining them up neatly, and then had immediately backed off again. 

“There you go,” he said, cheerfully. 

“Thanks, Cap,” she said, with one of those beaming smiles, which fell after a second as she counted them. “Oh, wait— there should be eight, not six. Huh. Maybe the rest are right next to—” 

Whatever she was going to say got cut off when she opened the neighboring cupboard door, and an avalanche of poorly-stacked plates immediately began to spill out in an uncontrolled torrent of heavy ceramic, and most of it would have landed square on her head, if Steve hadn’t grabbed her in his arms, swinging her around so that the brunt of the collapse was borne by the broad expanse of his back. 

It was over quickly, but for just a few seconds, it’d sounded like the end of the world, a deafening chaos of clatter and crash, until it tapered down to one last plate wobbling on the floor, and then finally everything was still again, with Darcy spooned and frozen in Steve’s arms. 

In the silence of the aftermath, Steve was the first to speak, and his voice was curt, sharp as he moved Darcy behind him: 

“Bucky.” 

Sam was standing now too, his own hand out in a pacifying gesture, though he’d left a buffer zone of several feet between himself and Bucky. 

“Barnes,” he said, his voice clear, neutral. “You with me?” 

It took him a few more seconds to come back, to figure out what had happened. He must’ve jumped back, his barstool tumbling to the floor in the process, and he was frozen now, his metal hand outstretched defensively in front of him. 

Everyone was staring at him— even Darcy, peeking at him from behind the shelter of Steve’s big body. The worried look on her face killed him. 

He hadn’t done this in a long time. When he’d first come back, it’d happened a lot— sudden noises, even sudden movements had set him off. He’d felt like a fool, but Sam had done a lot to help him understand the reasons for it, and how he shouldn’t blame himself for his reactions. 

He couldn’t look at Darcy again— couldn’t bear to read whatever was in her eyes now. Fear maybe. Or pity. 

“I gotta go,” he said, his voice sounding strange to his own ears, and he all but fled the scene. He could hear Sam’s voice saying, ‘Let him go,” as the room receded behind him. 

He didn’t go to his bedroom this time— it wasn’t that kind of need, not anymore. This time he found his release in the destruction of three perfectly innocent punching bags, and by the time he was done, he was actually sweating and breathing heavy, which was saying something, but it’d been worth the effort. He felt better. He pulled off his T-shirt and mopped his face with it, and then lay down on the mats, staring up at the ceiling as he brought his breathing down, re-centering himself. 

He didn’t know how long he’d been lying there, but eventually he heard the door to the gym opening, at the opposite end of the huge room, and then voices— and one of them was Darcy. He couldn’t hear what she was saying— she was too far away, and faced in the other direction— but he knew the rhythms of her speech, could feel it like a vibration, its signature as unique as any fingerprint. 

He sat up quickly and pulled on his shirt, hoping she hadn’t seen him lying there. 

She’d changed out of the skirt she’d had on before, into some black spandex shorts and a loose T-shirt, and even from afar, he could see the soft shape of her curvy ass as it spread out on the seat of the exercise bike she’d climbed up on. She started tapping away at the computer, as she programmed in the workout she wanted, chattering the whole time to the person next to her: a young, nerdy-looking guy with pretty, café au lait skin and extensive ear piercings. 

She laughed at something he said, and the sound of it— like a tinkling array of light, if light could have sound, carried across the room to him, like a tangible thing he could feel on his own skin. 

And just like that… 

Jesus. Not again. 

He made it back to his room in record time. 

He’d been determined not to do this anymore. Had intended to replace it with exercise, cold showers— anything. But fuck, who was he kidding. 

As he lay on his bed, moving his hand up and down the solid length of his dick, he let his mind go back to the kitchen, back before he’d made a fool of himself… back to when she’d been reaching up to the shelves, back to that scenario he’d drifted into, watching her, before Sam had pulled him out of it… 

He picked up right where he’d left off— his body right behind her, caging her in against the countertop, her ass just a breath away from the zipper of his jeans, and he carefully moved all of her hair to one side of her neck, baring the curve on the other side where it sloped into her shoulder, and she looked back at him then, maybe a little dangerous, just like she’d done when she’d seen the bakery box again, and his breath was picking up, his hand moving faster on his body… 

He let himself sink further into the fantasy… 

She was still looking back at him, her eyes closing as her lips parted, and his lips moved down to kiss that skin that he’d bared, following the line of her neck down to her shoulder, and she pressed her ass back into his body, rubbing his dick through his jeans with it, and his hands moved to her thighs, smoothing up their thick sides, up under the skirt, discovering she was bare underneath, and one hand reached around to the front, his fingers finding her, sliding in between, feeling the smooth silk of her heat… 

His metal hand unzipped his jeans and he pulled himself out, hard and hot and needy, and he flipped up the back of her skirt, and she widened her legs for him... God, so pretty…. 

Even in his mind, it felt so good when he slipped inside, her voice like velvet as she moaned his name, and he had one hand on her tits, his thumb massaging her nipple, as his other continued to stroke her under the skirt, pulling words from her lips as he found a steady rhythm inside… 

“ _Bucky_ …” 

He came with a shout, and he thought he was losing his mind, because he could swear he heard someone actually saying his name, for real… 

“Bucky!” 

Fuck, it _was_ real— it was Steve, knocking on the front door of his apartment— worried, by the sound of it. 

_Boom boom boom_. 

“Bucky— you okay, pal?” 

He scrambled up, yanking a tissue from the box by his bed, and stumbled out of the bedroom, a teetering wreck, naked from the waist down, and he called out, “Yeah— yeah, I'm fine…” 

_Walk away, Rogers_ … 

“You sure?” came Steve’s voice, through the door, still laced with concern. “Thought I heard you call out. I mean— after this morning, I—” 

“I’m fine,” he said, interrupting him, trying to make his voice sound steady. “Just, uh… smashed my thumb.” Great. Now he was a liar, too. 

“Oh,” said Steve, and Bucky knew the man would think it odd that he was talking to him through the door—not opening up— but there was nothing for it. 

He could hear Steve shift his weight outside the door, and then he said, “I, uh… I was just headin’ down to the gym. You wanna come?” 

“Nah,” said Bucky. “I already went. I’ll come find you in a while.” 

“All right. Catch you later, buddy.” 

He could hear him walking away down the hall, and Bucky pulled the soiled tissue away from his body— he’d been instinctively covering himself with it, even with the door shut, as though his shame could be a palpable thing, detectable even through the walls. 

God, what a fuck-up. He had to stop this. Stop using the image of that poor girl for his own sick fantasies. She deserved better than that. Someone like Steve, who would treat her like a gentleman, even in the privacy of his own mind. 

Jesus, what if she and Steve actually got together, and he was still carrying on like this? He felt guilty, just thinking about it— like he was already betraying his friend somehow, even if Steve still hadn’t shown more than a platonic interest in the girl. 

What was he waiting for, anyway? Could he really not see all the things that Bucky saw? Was he really not interested in her that way? 

God, if only he were his old self, he’d be playing this all different… testing the waters, seeing if there was any chance that she’d… 

Fuck, what was the point. It was just a fantasy— not even close to reality— and he needed to accept it, to stop torturing himself. Maybe he could find some other way to do his social-skills time, find some place he knew she wouldn’t frequent… 

He should come clean, talk to Sam about it… Sam was a good guy; he’d understand. He liked to stir the pot, give him a hard time when he deserved it, but Bucky knew if he went to him, spoke with sincerity, that Sam would take it seriously. Not give him any shit for it. 

He needed to get Darcy out of his head.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That look: Bucky was remembering Vivien Leigh:
> 
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>  
> 
>  


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

He hadn’t mustered the courage to talk to Sam yet, but with some creative avoidance he’d still managed to avoid seeing Darcy for an entire week. He thought it was helping— it wasn’t exactly ‘out of sight; out of mind’— she was still very much on his mind— but at least he’d backed off from the compulsive wank sessions. The abstinence had gone a long way to making him feel more like a man and less like some kind of animal, teetering on the edge of reason. 

He still wanted to talk to Sam about it— to confess his reasons for wanting to avoid certain areas at certain times, or maybe find alternative ways to practice his social skills. Or maybe he just wanted to talk about it, period. He hadn’t done much of that, yet. Just talking. With friends. Unloading. Maybe it’d help. 

Because his life felt like some kind of fucking metaphor half the time, that’s exactly what they were doing at the moment— unloading— the three of them out by the loading dock, helping to bring in a crap-ton of supplies that Barton had dropped off. Steve and Sam were chattering away, but Bucky was quiet— all up in his head— which wasn’t anything new, but this time he was trying to figure out a way to bring it up with Sam… or at least ask the man if they could talk alone, somewhere out of Steve’s earshot. Steve didn’t need to know the details of his problem with Darcy. 

Speak of the Devil. 

The rear door between the compound and the loading dock banged shut, and there she was— carrying a big cardboard box, and looking just as breathtakingly lovely as ever, and as Bucky stood there, frozen for a second, unprepared for it, he realized, with an odd feeling that was simultaneously a sinking and a swelling, that it was futile… just like those cyborg things, in that sci-fi show— new to Bucky, but old to everyone else— that Hill liked to watch at three in the morning: 

‘ _Resistance is Futile_ …’ 

Hill was a mystery, but someone he considered an ally. There were nights he couldn’t sleep— burdened by nightmares, fractured shards of memory— and he’d stumble, vibrating with tension, even in his exhaustion, to the lounge, where on more than several occasions he’d found Hill, watching TV alone, her only companion a large container of ice cream. 

They never exchanged any words, but she’d always made it clear, with her subtle shift down the couch, that he was welcome to be there, and that speaking was optional. He suspected the woman had her own demons, and watching her— someone he knew to be as sharp-witted and terrifying in both skill and reflex as any seasoned warrior— succor whatever secrets ailed her with a good-old-fashioned distraction, and some simple sugars and fats… it’d done something for him. Given him some kind of permission inside that he hadn’t even realized he’d been withholding… 

Darcy was making her way to the steps by the rear of the loading dock, probably heading to the dumpsters with whatever she had in the big box. She was in the Daisy Dukes again, this time with a cherry-red tank-top tucked in, and rainbow-striped flip-flops. 

There was nowhere for him to run, nowhere to hide. No way to flee the scene. It was like being hit with a missile, just made worse by the interval of avoidance, as though he’d lost what little he’d gained in acclimating to her impact in the weeks before. 

He felt it everywhere in his body— excitement, relief… panic. Lust. _Fuck_. 

The box she was carrying was huge; she couldn’t see her own feet as she picked her way down the steep cement steps. She was trying to feel it out with her flip-flops, stepping blindly as she tried to manage the big box, and Steve— hero of the day… or any day— was just jogging over to help her, when Bucky saw her falter, roll her ankle, and then she was tumbling the rest of the way down the steps, dropping the box and its contents— dozens of empty jewel cases, like from old data CDs— which scattered out like an explosion in front of her, as she crashed to the bottom of the steps in a spectacular, clattering mess. 

Steve got to her first, but Bucky and Sam were close on his heels, Bucky’s heart pounding in his worry for her welfare. 

“You okay honey?” said Steve, crouching down to where she was now sprawled on the ground. She had a nasty scrape on her knee, and one of her flip-flops had fallen off. Her left toenail was partially ripped off, and the toe was bleeding. 

“Ow,” she said, but she said it with humor— not fear— and Bucky let out a breath inside, relieved. She actually seemed a bit embarrassed, which wasn’t like her at all. Maybe because she’d actually gotten hurt this time, and couldn’t just blow it off. 

“Yeah, I’m okay,” she added, blowing a lock of hair out of her face, grimacing as she bent the leg with the road-rash on it. “I think I hurt my ankle, though. God, what a klutz.” She was trying to laugh about it, even though she was obviously in a bit of pain. 

“Lemme see,” said Sam, moving up and shouldering Steve out of the way. 

Bucky hung back, not wanting to make her uncomfortable with his proximity— he hadn’t been this close to her since the morning he’d had that hyper-vigilance response in the break room, and he could still remember the worried look in her eyes as she’d stared at him from behind the safety of Steve’s body… 

He started picking up the scattered jewel cases instead, putting them back into the big cardboard box. 

“Right or left?” he heard Sam say. 

“Left” she said, and Sam gently palpated the joint, watching Darcy’s face for any sign of discomfort. 

Bucky kept glancing over, and he found himself tensing in sympathy as she winced. He wanted to scoop her up into his arms, carry her to the infirmary… 

“Don’t think it’s broken,” said Sam, removing his fingers from her ankle, “but you probably got yourself a pretty decent sprain. You should head over to medical and get an X-ray just to be sure, get some ice on it right away. Some anti-inflammatories.” 

“C’mere, honey,” said Steve, bending down to lift her up. “I’ll take you.” 

_Of course you will_ , thought Bucky, trying hard not to hate his friend. Fuck, this jealousy was just another reason this had to stop. Steve wasn’t doing anything wrong. Steve was a good guy. The best. Steve deserved to be happy, without Bucky resenting him for it. Steve deserved Darcy. 

“Hey, Bucky?” 

He actually flinched when he heard her say his name. She’d never said it before, not outside the sick imaginings of his own mind. It sounded so much sweeter in reality. 

He hadn’t even realized she’d known what his name _was_ — not really— or even aware of him enough to speak to him directly like that. To call him by name. It threw him so much that he couldn’t even speak— just looked at her, wrinkling his forehead. Steve had pushed up to standing with her in his arms, bridal-style, and they were both looking at him. 

“Could you put that stuff in recycling for me?” she said, and something about her face was so kind, he got lost in it for a few seconds. “That’s where I was headed.” 

“Sure, doll,” he said, finally finding his voice, though it sounded gruff and stupid. He felt her answering smile like another direct-hit to all of his cells, like he’d been pushed by a strong breeze, and he actually moved one boot back on the blacktop, to steady himself. 

“Thanks,” she said, and he just stared back at her, rendered speechless again, like an idiot. 

And then Steve was turning away, carrying her in his manly arms, back up the steps and through the dark loading dock to the rear entrance to the facility. Bucky watched them the whole way. 

“That could be you, you know,” said Sam, gently, finally breaking him out of his trance. 

“Huh?” He took a second to process what Sam had said to him, and then he crouched down to start picking up the rest of the scattered jewel cases. 

“Don’t be a dumbass,” he muttered, but part of him was relieved, because this was his opportunity— his chance to talk about it, and he was thankful that Sam had given him the opening, so that he could finally get it over with instead of chickening out again. “You see the look in her eyes when Stevie picked her up?” 

“Yeah,” said Sam, bending down to help. “Saw a girl who was glad she didn’t have to walk up those steps with a twisted ankle.” 

“Whatever,” said Bucky. He wanted to talk about how to end this, not discuss some daydream fantasy. Pretending there was some chance would just twist the knife. 

“You’re gonna miss your window, man,” said Sam, and he let a note of frustration leak into his words, even as they were still gentle, in that way that Sam was so good at. He knew just how far he could push Bucky, and they weren’t there yet. “You’re the one bein’ a dumbass; you know that?” he said. “An’ you’re gonna regret it. Trust me; I know.” 

Bucky made a scoffing sound. “You sayin’ I even _got_ a window?” 

“Won’t know unless you man up and find out,” said Sam, but then he softened again. “An’ yeah,” he said. “I think you do.” He was standing up again, and he put his hands on his hips, arms akimbo, trying to look stern, but then he dropped his head and shook it couple times before looking at Bucky again, and now there was exasperation in his expression, tempered with a bit of humor. 

“You do realize it wasn’t Rogers she’s been sneakin’ looks at all these weeks, right?” he said. “Or are you really that dense.” 

Bucky had tossed the last plastic case into the box, but he hadn’t stood up yet— he was too busy trying to parse what Sam was suggesting. It didn’t make any sense at all. He tried playing it back in his mind, all those times she’d come into the break room, or the lounge, bumped into them on movie night, seen them out on the yard… all those sneaky little looks at Steve… 

Could she have… 

No. _No_. He knew he wasn’t reading it wrong. There was no way she was interested in him, the way he— no. 

And fuck Sam for giving him that kind of hope. 

“I gotta go,” he said, picking up the filled box, and he could hear Sam sighing behind him, as he walked away with it. He dumped it into the huge recycling dumpster off to the side, cardboard box and all, let the lid slam shut again with a resounding _boom_ , and then continued walking, across the yard and over to the edge of the property, where the grass butted up against the beginnings of the forest. 

He didn’t want to go back to his room, didn’t want to just lie in his bed and jerk off again, like a loser. He was gonna keep his distance. From her, from his dick, from his own room, if need be, if that’s what it took. Christ, but he needed some fuckin’ dignity, for once in his life. 

In spite of that resolve, Sam’s words, and their implication, kept nagging at the edges of his thoughts for the entire two hours that he wandered the perimeter, avoiding the compound. 

What if he did have a window? Even if it was the smallest pinpoint prick of light in an otherwise shadowy unknown… if there were even the tiniest chance that Sam could be right… maybe it was worth the overwhelming likelihood that he was wrong— that Bucky would just humiliate himself… 

Wasn’t it? 

He thought of her pretty face, and how it’d felt when she’d said his name, smiled at him as Steve had held her in his arms. Smiled at _him_ , no doubt about it— at least that one time. 

What the fuck did he possibly have to lose at this point? His dignity? Seriously? Maybe he’d thought so, but if he was really honest with himself, he’d have to face the truth that he’d lost the privilege of dignity too long ago to even remember what it felt like. What he’d been calling ‘dignity’ in his mind— it wasn’t that at all. It was just a defense-mechanism, calling it that, when in fact it was… more like a willful avoidance of feeling anything other than the certainty of safety.

Safety. Right.

Bucky had jumped into collapsing buildings without hesitation… dived head-on into battles where the odds were a shit-show at best… punched and clawed his way through situations where the chances for success were, as Sam would say, ‘ _Slim and None, and Slim is out of town_ ’… Fuck, just last week Bucky had followed Steve straight off the roof of a building and leapt into a burning helicopter without a second thought. 

Bucky wasn’t afraid of lost causes— of shit odds, of injury, of death. He’d long since given up on any sense of safety to his person. It was a non-issue. 

The safety of his heart had never been a consideration, so he hadn’t even recognized the need to protect it. Now that he knew of the danger, he had no idea how to fortify it— how to seal it over with metal, how to keep it from doing what it was doing, which was as fraught with peril as jumping off a fuckin’ building. 

It was time to man up.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)   
> 


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

Bucky could both hear and feel the sound of the party— the droning thump of modern dance music— all the way up in his room, the vibrations coming through the floor as he sat on the edge of his bed, procrastinating. 

Maybe a quasi-military compound was an odd place for Stark to hold his own engagement party, but one of the advantages of having an enormous private base in the middle of nowhere was the freedom to blast offensively loud music into the wilderness, without worry of pissing off your neighbors or getting a citation. 

The song ended, and it was quiet for a few seconds, and then another one started up— the beat almost identical— and Bucky sighed, tempted to just pull the dress shirt back off, lie down and shut his eyes, and forget the whole thing. 

His phone lit up with a chime, and he looked down at it, where it lay on the mattress next to him. 

It was a text from Sam: “ _Come on, man. Where you at_.” 

Bucky had committed to forty-five minutes at the party, with no pressure to do anything other than sit on a couch. He was already an hour late. 

Some of it wasn’t intentional; it’d taken him a while to get dressed— he hadn’t worn a suit since 1944, as far as he knew (and if he had, then it was for something he didn’t want to remember). 

He’d been surprised when his fingers remembered how to manipulate the necktie— not something his conscious brain could map out, but which his hands took over as though on autopilot, wrapping and looping and making final adjustments until he’d achieved the sharp-looking Windsor knot that some forgotten person had taught him decades ago, and which, fortunately for Bucky, was still the fashion, seventy years later… 

Now he’d been sitting on the edge of his bed, fidgeting with the buttons on the cuffs of his shirt, for a good twenty minutes, knowing what he meant to do— needed to do— but fearing it. 

“ _Darcy’s here_ ,” came the next text, as though Sam could read his mind through multiple levels of masonry. “ _She’s all lonely lookin. Can’t dance with that ankle. Come down, help me keep her company_.” 

He hadn’t seen her since her tumble two days before, but Sam had, and he’d reported that the sprain hadn’t been as bad as he’d feared. Still, she couldn’t put any weight on it for a while, and there certainly wouldn’t be any dancing in her near future. 

Bucky thought of her sitting there all forlorn, her pretty face colored by a mix of sadness and envy as she watched all the party-goers move around the dance floor without her, and he sighed, sat up, and took his suit-coat off the hanger. It’d been specially-tailored to accommodate his prosthesis without looking imbalanced, and his arms slipped easily into it. 

Steve had pushed him to get the suit, saying, ‘ _You never know when you might need it_ ,’ which had made Bucky scoff at the time— _Yeah, right_ — but he’d finally agreed, just to shut the guy up. 

This was the first time he’d actually worn it, and he felt stiff and awkward as he stared at himself in the full-length mirror by the entryway. He smoothed down the tie one more time, and then buttoned the top button on the coat, leaving the lower one open, and took one last look at himself. His hair was clean and combed back, his beard was trimmed, his shoes shined. The suit was pressed and fit him perfectly. 

He should have been pleased with what he saw, but he just sighed through his nose, his lips pressed together as he stared at his own image, neither liking nor dislking it, which, he supposed, was an improvement, and yet… 

_It’s a waste of time_. 

His phone chimed: another text from Sam. 

“ _Hey if you’re standin there talkin yourself out of it, this is the voice of reason talkin back. Get your ass down here_.” 

The man was a fuckin’ telepath… 

Bucky shut his eyes, exhaled once more through his nose, licked his lips. Tried to channel that energy from before, when he’d had that moment of clarity and resolve while walking the grounds of the compound two days ago. 

He opened his eyes, slipped the phone into the pocket of his trousers, and walked out the front door. 

 

* * *

 

Darcy was pouting. She _loved_ to dance. That stupid tumble down the steps had been the worst possible timing. Now, with her ankle wrapped in a compression bandage, and strict orders to stay off of it, she was grounded. She wouldn’t have even come to the stupid party, but she’d had this dress picked out for weeks, and anyway, she never passed up free booze. 

At least Sam was keeping her company for the time being; his girlfriend had been called to deliver a baby— someone had decided to greet the world two weeks early— and she’d rushed off in her cocktail dress shortly after they’d arrived, her apologies trailing behind her as she’d barked commands into her phone. 

Darcy had glommed onto them as soon as she'd arrived, knowing that most of her own friends were skipping the party entirely, in favor of some new data that had come in about possible moons orbiting a certain exoplanet they'd been watching. Jane had said something about particle scatter and gravitational forces and _blah blah blah_. Yeah, yawn. 

Steve and Sam had quickly taken her under their wing after Sam's date had taken off, though Steve was less available— there was a certain expectation on his shoulders to mingle and socialize with the guests who’d come in from outside the population of the compound— but he did make an effort to keep Darcy in refreshments, so that she wouldn’t have to get up and use her cane unnecessarily. 

Bucky, meanwhile, was nowhere to be seen, and she was trying to hide her disappointment. She hadn’t even bothered lying to herself as she’d gotten dressed; she was fully aware that all of her extra effort— her outfit, her hair, her makeup... her fancy underwear— had all been for him. She’d been fortifying herself with the right amount of drink to finally just go out on a limb— to make a move— and now the guy hadn’t even shown. 

She could see Steve heading over with three fresh drinks— beers for him and Sam, and some bright red thing in a martini glass for Darcy. 

Steve set all the drinks down and collapsed with a sigh, letting his body sink back into the overstuffed couch. Socializing was exhausting— he could put up a good front, but really he’d rather just sit on the sidelines and relax. 

”Buck show up yet?” he asked. 

”Nope,” said Sam. 

Darcy leaned forward and immediately picked out the triple-raspberry garnish from her drink. She pulled the fruits off the cocktail pick with her teeth, and set the red-stained stick down on a napkin while she ate the fruit, and then washed it down with a good half of the drink in one go. 

“Thanks, Steve,” she said finally. “That hits the spot.” She leaned back into the couch, letting it swallow her up as well, the fabric of her party dress crinkling as she moved, and let out a dramatic sigh. Even the intensely-sugary drink wasn’t helping with her mood. “This is like torture,” she said, taking a break from watching all the partygoers having fun on the dance floor. “Remind me why I came to this thing?” 

Sam had just finished texting someone, and he put his phone away and said, “Hey, I’d ask you to dance, but I’m even worse than Steve.” It was bald-faced lie— nobody was a worse dancer than Steve— but Sam was counting on nobody calling him on it— just accepting it as a joke. He was hoping that Barnes would get his act together and show up soon, and that the man’s old-fashioned chivalry would kick in for once. He just needed a little push. Maybe Sam could work that from both ends… 

“Anyway,” he said, “I’d be too worried about that ankle. You gotta resist the urge to mess with it, even if it’s feelin’ better than yesterday, or the day before. He pretended to catch a thought, raising his eyebrows as he voiced it. “You know, maybe someone real strong, like Steve, could just spin you ‘round without your feet ever touchin’ the floor…” 

He smirked to himself and added, like it was an afterthought, “or Bucky…” 

“Where is Bucky, anyway?” she said, frowning. “He’s usually connected to you guys at the hip.” 

“Said he was comin’,” said Steve. “He, uh… he gets a little nervous around crowds.” 

“Yeah, I noticed,” she said. “But sometimes you just gotta fake it ’til you make it.” 

“That’s sorta what we been doin’,” said Sam. “Gettin’ him used to bein’ around people again.” 

They all just sat there drinking their drinks for a while, and Sam checked his phone again. Where the fuck was Barnes… 

The song changed into something slower, and a lot of the dancers abandoned the floor, having no idea how to do any ‘real’ dancing. A few of the lovesick couples stayed, just swaying against each other, back and forth, moving softly to the music, and Darcy sighed again, and looked at Steve. 

“Couldn’t you just, like, twirl me around or something? Like Sam said? Just pick me up so that my feet aren’t actually touching the ground? I swear, I don’t care how bad you are. I just don’t wanna feel like this dress was a total waste…” 

She heard someone clear his throat off to the side, and when she looked up, it was Bucky Barnes— in a gorgeous black suit, with a black shirt and tie, his long hair sleek and combed back, his blue eyes popping out of his face like glittering sapphires. He was holding his metal hand out to her. 

“Come on doll,” he said. “I’ll dance with you.” 

She was speechless, looking up at him, completely frozen, because she’d never seen anything in her life as good-looking as Bucky looked in that suit, and even if she had, they certainly wouldn’t have been directing their attention toward _her._

She was still just looking up at him, staring, and after a few seconds that felt stretched out to minutes, he finally faltered, looking regretful, and started to pull his hand back. 

“M’sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have—” 

“Wait,” she said, and she was trying to push herself up, but it was difficult, with the way the leather couch was so deep, swallowing her up, and her inability to use both feet for leverage. She finally managed to propel herself up, but as usual, she’d misjudged the physics, and without her cane to steady her, she would have toppled sideways and face-planted on the coffee table if Bucky hadn’t jumped forward to catch her. 

It was like time slowed to crawl as his flesh hand gripped her bare arm instinctively, while the metal one traveled around to her back, supporting and steadying her, and the motion pulled her right into him, their bodies separated by a mere few inches of air, and she looked up at him, with a mix of surprise and… well, he couldn’t identify the other emotion on her face, but he was really hoping it wasn’t fear. 

She smelled like something at once juicy and exotic, like some kind of night-blooming flower infused with a sugary dessert— like caramelized pears… and he realized it was something that’d been missing from his fantasies, something his imagination hadn’t been able to fill in— her scent— and he was suddenly bathed in the full sensory experience of her… the feel of her skin under his hands, the warm press of her body as he pulled her close, the rustle of her dress, the darkness of her long lashes as she blinked up at him, and the only thing missing was her taste, and he was dizzy for a second, imagining what it would feel like to kiss her while he was already steeped in the heady experience of having her so near… 

And then time returned to its normal flow, like someone had pressed ‘ _Play_ ’ again, and he cleared his throat as he released her, while she took a careful step back on her healthy foot and straightened her dress, pulling up on the sides of the bodice, making her boobs jiggle. He swallowed, once. 

“Sorry, I—” He felt like an ass, being so familiar with her— putting his hands on her without warning, after weeks of only watching her from afar. 

“No, it’s fine,” she said. “Thanks for the save. I probably woulda taken the other ankle out, knowing me.” 

He would have chuckled at her self-deprecating joke, but he was too busy looking her up and down, now that she’d stepped back a little and he could see her full outfit. 

“You look—” 

He couldn’t finish the sentence at first, because it was a little overwhelming. She was in an adorable little black dress, the fitted bodice pushing her breasts up into creamy mounds between thin black straps. The A-line skirt ended just above the knee, and an unusual purple petticoat peeked out below the ruffled hem. Because of her injury, she was wearing simple little flats, black to match the dress. She saw him looking at them as his eyes traveled all the way down the length of her body. 

“These aren’t the shoes I planned to wear,” she said, as though needing to apologize. “Four-inch heels with an ankle-sprain? Nuh-uh.” 

“You look amazing,” he finally said, trying to steady himself, to speak carefully, so that he wouldn’t say something stupid. “Beautiful.” 

He pressed his lips together, swallowing again, completely abashed, and actually looked away for a second before his eyes returned to her face. He was so consumed by the nearness of her, the flood of sensations he had as he stood there, so close to her— actually talking to her— that he didn’t even notice the way his friends were grinning at them like a couple of smug-ass jerks. 

She wasn’t saying anything in response to his compliment, and he was starting to panic, having no idea what to do next. He’d asked her to dance, but she hadn’t accepted— not exactly. 

“Sorry,” she finally said, shaking her head a little, and then she chuckled as she looked down, smoothed her hands down her dress. “I’m being a total weirdo.” She looked back up at him, and then he could see her eyes running up and down his body, just as he’d done to hers. “It’s just that— let’s just say you clean up real nice.” She shook her head again, and grinned. “Not that you weren’t lookin’ all kinds of hot before.” 

He had no idea how to respond to that— his brain couldn’t even process it as a legitimate statement; he’d have to think about it later, try to figure out why she would say something like that. He changed the subject. 

“You uh… you still wanna dance?” The slow song that had been playing when he’d first entered the room had ended, but another one was just starting up. 

He almost felt like he was in one of those movies… one of those romantic comedies, and this was the part where she’d say something like, ‘ _I thought you’d never ask_ ,’ and then the music would swell and… 

“Does a bear shit in the woods?” she said instead. “Fuck yeah, I wanna dance.” 

It wasn’t like one of those movies at all. It was better. It was Darcy. 

He looked over to the couch, where her cane was leaning up against the side, and finally noticed Sam and Steve watching them with shit-eating grins. He glared at them, and then nodded to the cane as he spoke to Darcy. “You gonna need that?” 

She glanced at it, and then looked back up at him and said, “Sam was saying someone with super-strength like you could just lift me up, maybe just hold me the whole time…” 

_Oh he was, was he?_

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said, glaring once more at Sam for good measure, unsure whether he should thank the man, or curse him. His chest was already tightening just at the thought of it— of lifting her up, holding her close against his body, for the length of an entire song… 

“I gotta warn you,” he said, stalling… “I ain’t danced in about seventy years.” 

“You any better than Steve?” she asked, grinning. 

“Used to be,” he said, and he was surprised by the certainty in his own voice— just a touch of confidence there, a hint of the old swagger… like the force of her smiling at him like that was unlocking something inside. Something he thought he’d lost, maybe forever. 

“I guess we’ll find out,” he added, not wanting to give her any false hope. There was still a part of him that was screaming, _what in the holy hell are you doing?_ But there was another part— and thanks to Sam, this part was louder— saying, _This is it: this is your fuckin’ window, pal— now don’t be an asshole and screw it up_. 

“You ready?” he said, looking down at her, and she nodded back, and he held his flesh hand out to her, and she reached out to take it, like it was just that simple, and it took his breath away— the fact that this was really happening: she was right there, holding his hand, looking up at him with her big blue eyes, no fear in them at all, and there was something else… almost as if she _liked_ what she saw… liked the look of _him_ , which was crazy… 

And then he was uncertain, not quite sure how to proceed— how to lift her up without getting too familiar, and he dropped her hand and said, “How should we— I mean, what—” 

“Just go for it,” she said, stepping in close to him, and then she wrapped her little arms around his body to hang on. “I trust you.” 

It was almost too much— the flood of sensation, and the impact of her words— but he went with it, for her sake, not wanting to disappoint her, and he wrapped his flesh arm around the girth of her body, and then he was lifting her up, easily, her weight no more than a feather to him, and he was holding her to him with his arm alone, her shoes about a foot off the ground. 

“This all right?” he asked. He could feel her breasts pressing against him, and it was making his heart quicken. 

“Let’s do it,” she said. “Show me your moves, hot stuff.” 

He noticed a few people looking at them curiously as he carried her like that, through the maze of tables and clusters of partygoers, until he found an empty spot on the dance floor, and he didn’t even care— didn’t mind for once, if anyone was staring, because he was already so lost in _her_ … in the knowledge that he was actually doing this crazy thing, and _God, don’t let him mess this up_ … 

He almost set her down— almost forgot that he needed to keep holding her up— and he just stood there for a moment, eyes closed, hearing the music, trying to think what to do… 

He could feel the rhythm in his body, his fractured memories already telling his feet how to move, but he couldn’t get started… just stood there, frozen, while the other couples swayed around them… 

“You all right?” she said quietly. “We don’t have to, if this is too—” 

“I’ll be okay,” he said automatically, though he knew no such thing, and he opened his eyes to look at her. Her own eyes were fixed on his face, and he could see the concern in them— concern for _him_ , not for herself, and he didn’t know how to feel about that. “Just nervous, I guess.” 

“About what?” she said. She’d shifted her hands between them, her palms resting flat against his chest, and she moved one of them against him, just slightly— maybe a half-inch up and down, but it felt like everything… 

“What are you nervous about?” she said, pressing the point, but her voice was nothing but kind, as though she really wanted to know... as though it weren’t awkward at all that they were just standing there, unmoving, as he held her to him, her feet dangling above the floor, and people were probably still looking at them, wondering what was wrong with him… 

He laughed a little. “Everything.” 

She smiled up at him, and he could finally see that little gap between her teeth close-up, and something about it bowled him over: like he’d been struck with a wave of fondness so strong, that he almost sagged under the weight of it. 

“Hey,” she was saying, “I know you’ve seen me— on more than one occasion— doing, like, the most fucked-up embarrassing things ever. Like, I have absolutely no style or grace whatsoever. I’m pretty much a walking disaster. Compared to me? You’ve got nothing to worry about.” 

He wanted to argue— to protest that she shouldn’t say that kind of stuff about herself— but her words actually made him feel a little bit better. Like she wasn’t so much putting herself down, as she was letting him know that he didn’t have to impress her. He wondered if she realized that he hadn’t just been talking about the dancing. 

He lifted her right hand with his left one— the metal one— and clasped them together, lifting her hand up and out to the side, as his right arm continued to hold and support her. Their arms were bent in mirror-images to his left, and he was holding her almost like a proper dance partner, and it felt so good— so familiar— and he was just getting up his nerve to finally start moving… to take the first step, when the song trailed off, the tune fading away as it came to an end. 

The other couples around them broke apart, smiling at one another sleepily, drifting away from the dance floor while he and Darcy remained there like a couple of marionettes, stiff and unmoving— frozen in place. 

He dropped his chin to his chest and shook his head in frustration. “Goddamnit,” he said softly, but he was smiling as he said it, and she giggled a little and let him drop their arms from the starting position. He did set her down then— carefully, making sure she had her balance before he let go. 

“It’s okay,” she said. “We can catch the next one.” 

The music shifted back to a driving, modern beat, and within a few seconds the dance floor was swarming with people again, laughing and moving around them frenetically, and maybe Darcy could see how uncomfortable he was, trapped there in the crowd, because she bumped his chest with her little fist and said, “You wanna get me another drink?” 

He asked permission before he picked her up again, and then ferried her back to their spot, which was now empty— neither Sam nor Steve anywhere in sight. 

“Huh,” she said, looking around, as he set her down gently. “Wonder where the guys went?” 

“You want another one of those?” he asked, indicating her nearly-empty cocktail, as she slumped back into the couch. He was still standing, and he could feel her looking at him again, with that expression he couldn’t quite identify, as her eyes moved up and down his body. Maybe he looked weird in a suit. She’d only ever seen him in workout clothes, or casual stuff, like jeans. She’d complimented him before, but she was probably just bein’ polite. He shifted awkwardly, and stuck his metal hand in his pocket. 

“Sure,” she was saying. “It’s, uh… it’s called a ‘Love Potion’,” she added, looking a little embarrassed. 

“You got it,” he said, and swiveled around to go get it for her, relieved to have a mission with clear parameters. 

He was waiting for their drinks, tapping his metal fingers on the bar, when his phone buzzed, and he pulled it out of his pocket to check the text. It was Sam. 

“ _You’re doin fine_ ,” it said. “ _I’ll see you tomorrow_.” 

Bucky typed out a quick reply: “ _Where’d you go?_ ” 

“ _Got a call from my girl. She finished up early, so I’m headin over to her place_.” 

“ _You seen Steve?_ ” 

“ _Nope_.” 

A few seconds later there was one more text: 

“ _You get overwhelmed, anything gets to be too much, you just excuse yourself, tell her you need some air. She’ll understand. My phone’ll be on if you need anything_.” 

The bartender came back, delivering the bright red cocktail, and Bucky nodded his thanks and put his phone away. He appreciated Sam’s words, but at the same time he couldn’t really see himself doing that— ditching here there at the party, if he got uncomfortable. He wondered where her other friends were. How it was she was hanging out with _him_ , of all people. Maybe she’d find someone else she knew, and he could slip out, without seeming like a jerk. 

He carried the drink back to the couch where Darcy was waiting for him, and set it down, the stemware clinking against the glass surface of the coffee table. 

“Thanks,” she said, leaning forward to snag the fruit garnish right away. Bucky remained standing for a moment, and then finally, feeling huge and awkward, took a seat next to her on the couch, leaving a respectable distance between them. 

“You see Sam or Steve?” she asked, looking at him over the rim of the glass as she took a drink. 

He wondered if she was uncomfortable, just being there alone with him— if she was hoping the other guys would come back and save her. He again wondered where her other friends were. 

“No,” he said, “but I heard from Sam. He took off.” 

“Oh,” she said, and then wagged her eyebrows. “Must’ve been a fast delivery. I’m assuming they’re not coming back?” 

“Didn’t sound like it,” said Bucky. He was fidgeting a little, looking down at his metal fingertips. “You, uh… you don’t gotta hang out with me if—” 

She took another swallow of her drink and set the glass back down on the table, squeezing her eyebrows together. “Why wouldn’t I want to hang out with you?” 

“I dunno,” he said, feeling stupid. He ran his right hand over the back of his hair in a nervous gesture. “I’m not very…” 

He didn’t finish it— didn’t know how to— but she saved him, breaking in to say, “You’re fine. And if the crowd is too much, just say the word. We can totally just go back to my place and watch a movie or something.” She sounded so matter-of-fact about it, like it was no big thing, and he didn’t know what to say— didn’t know if she was serious. 

Her voice got a little more quiet then, as she added, “I mean, if you want.” 

He looked at her face, and realized she actually looked a little bit nervous. About what, he wondered. Did she think she _needed_ to invite him? Was she just bein’ polite, and was hoping he’d decline? Was that something girls even did? Fuck, he was rusty. How had he ever been good at this? 

“If you want to?” he said. “I—” 

“Do _you?_ ” she asked. 

He had no idea what to say. Did she want him to say _yes_? Or was he supposed to say _no_? He wished Sam were there, to steer him in the right direction, but he wasn’t about to whip out his phone and ask for advice while she was sitting right there, looking at him, waiting for an answer. 

He hadn’t realized, until this moment, just how much Sam had been subtly acting as his social facilitator, even around people other than Darcy— smoothing things over when he got tongue-tied, helping him out when he was confused… 

“I mean, I guess,” he said, just speaking instinctively, and he was already wincing, regretting it, sure he’d made the wrong move, but then she was already pushing herself up, grabbing the cane, and he rushed to stand up as well, his memories telling him that it was the proper thing to do. 

“Cool; let’s get out of here,” she said. 

She was just standing there, tipping her head back to slam the rest of her drink, and he took one more look around the room, scanning for Steve, but the man was nowhere to be found. 

Darcy set the empty glass down. “Ready?” 

“Sure,” he said, trying to project a confidence he didn't feel. He honestly had no idea what was going on, but he supposed he could walk her back to her room, like a gentleman. 

She smiled. “Let’s go.” 

He walked beside her on her left so she could use the cane on her right, on the opposite side of her injury. Something instinctive was crawling up from deep inside his buried memories, telling his hand to move up and hover at her back in a protective gesture, and as he did it, his fingers brushing the back of her dress, she looked up at him and smiled. 

He could feel eyes on them as they left the room, people no doubt wondering what someone like him was doing with a pretty girl like Darcy. He couldn’t have given them an answer, because he had no idea himself.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)   
> 


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

He’d been prepared to walk her back, leave her safely at her door like a gentleman, and then return to his room alone, grateful for the little time he’d had, and for those heady moments on the dance floor, when he’d held her in his arms. 

She hadn’t even asked him if he wanted to come in; she’d just unlocked the door and walked straight inside, leaving the door open like she was expecting him to follow. Like there was no question of his being alone in her room with her. 

He’d followed her in, silently, and shut the door. She’d slipped off her shoes ahead of him, leaving them by the entryway, leaned her cane against the wall, and then continued on, dumping her little pocketbook and phone on the countertop in the kitchenette, and then headed over to the fridge, walking with a kind of shuffle-hop without the aid of the cane. 

“Should I, uh… should I take off my shoes?” he asked. There was a mat there by the door, with a collection of shoes lined up on it. Most of the guys he knew— himself included— were barbarians: tromping all over their rooms with dirty work boots on, covered in who-knows-what… but this was her place, and he wanted to be proper, do things right. 

“If you want,” she said. She was holding the fridge door open, scanning the shelves inside. “We can watch a movie if you want, or we can just hang out.” She swore under her breath and looked over her shoulder at him, where he was toeing off his dress shoes by the entryway. They looked enormous, there on the mat next to her tiny little flats. 

“I only have one beer left,” she lamented, from the kitchen. “Fuck, we shoulda stole some from the party.” 

“It’s okay,” he said, and he moved to join her by the counter, unsure whether he should stand or sit. There was a row of barstools on the side opposite the kitchen, hidden under the overhang. He had his flesh hand shoved in his trousers pocket, and he was fidgeting with a tiny, unclipped thread sticking out of the lining. “I should probably just go,” he said, which was a dumb thing to say right after taking his shoes off. 

It’d been nice, walking her back to her room— it’d felt familiar, and he’d been hypnotized by the swish of her dress, the bounce of her long hair where it curled at the ends, the subtle waft of her perfume as it’d drifted over him in random little currents, reminding him of how it’d felt to be bathed in her presence when he’d held her. 

Now that they were standing there, in her environment, and he'd realized that they really knew very little about one another, he felt out of place, and completely ill-equipped for the situation. The wasn’t Social-Skills 101. This was way beyond what Sam or Steve or even his therapist had prepared him for. 

“Do you _wanna_ go?” she asked, as she pulled the lone green bottle out of the fridge and set it on the counter. 

“No,” he said, trying to be honest, “but…” 

“But what?” 

“I just… I don’t know how to do this,” he said. 

“Do what?” she said, her voice easy, not a trace of judgment in it. “Watch a movie with a girl? Drink a beer? We can share it. If you don’t mind your lips being in the same place as mine.” 

She winked at him as she said it, and it hit him like a bullet— it was almost the same line she’d used on Steve, as a joke, at that other party in the lounge, a few weeks back. The same line Bucky had taken back to his room with him and… yup, there he went. He shifted a little closer to the counter, so he could hide the fact that his dick was already flooding with heat at the memory of it: how he’d brought himself off as he’d imagined their lips in the same place— namely, on each other. 

He should apologize. He should leave. _Yeah, right, asshole. What you gonna say? ‘Sorry, doll— I gotta go jerk off. I’ll catch you later_.’ It made him feel even more disgusted that even though he obviously wouldn’t say something like that to her, it’s exactly what he’d wind up doing back in his room, if only he could honorably flee the scene. He felt like a fraud. 

“You hungry?” she asked, as she rummaged around in a drawer, her back to him. Her hair had fallen to the side as she leaned over, and he could see the exposed skin of her shoulder-blades, above the line of the black bodice. She had a single dark spot— a freckle or a mole— right next to one of her shoulder straps. He wanted to touch it. Feel it under his fingertip, bend down and brush it with his lips, pull the strap down… 

“I don’t have much, but I’m sure I could scrounge up something.” 

God, he was a lecherous fuck. There she was, trying to find something to feed him, and all he wanted in his mouth was _her_. 

She’d dug out a bottle opener, and turned back around, holding it in her hand. She pried off the bottle-cap, and then pushed the beer toward him, the label on it already damp with a thin sheen of condensation. He just stared at it as she turned back to her cupboards, looking for snacks. 

“I’ve got bread… cereal… microwave popcorn… _ooh_ — I do have some leftover baklava. You know; from the break room? Don’t tell on me, but I totally stole the rest of it this afternoon, when no-one else was in there. I mean, it was just sitting there, all lonely, and everyone else was probably starving themselves to look all buff and pretty for the party, so…” 

He’d had his hand under the counter, out of sight, while her back was turned, and he’d stuck it into his pocket to adjust his dick, willing it to calm down. He pulled out a barstool and sat, grateful for the cover that the overhang afforded. 

“I wish I could figure out who keeps bringing it,” she was saying, as she walked back to the counter with the rumpled bakery box. “I wanna start getting it direct, for me and Jane to nom on.” 

“It uh…” He was rubbing the back of his neck a little sheepishly, as she got out a couple of small plates and some napkins and then lifted the lid on the box. He blew out a breath, resigned. “It was me,” he finally said, afraid to look at her. 

“Shut the fuck up,” she said, but he could hear by the sound of her voice that she wasn’t angry, and he risked a look at her face. There was that smile, like he’d just told her the funniest joke. His eyes kept drifting to her mouth as she spoke— her lips were so red… 

“It was you this whole time?” She was still grinning up a storm as she placed a couple of slices of pastry on each of the little white plates. “Why didn’t you say something?” 

“I, uh…” He exhaled through his nose. “I don’t know.” His eyes had moved from her lips to her fingers, as she plated the food. Her hands were so small. He hadn’t realized it when he’d held them, back at the party— he’d been too flooded with input at the time to notice any discrete details, receiving everything in a blast of sensation— but now he was seeing everything: all the little pieces that made her unique and beautiful and exactly who she was. 

“So what’s the big secret?” she said. “Is it like some Armenian mafia place or something?” 

“Nah,” he said, grinning, surprised by how quickly her words relaxed him, how easily her laid-back manner drew his smile out. If he could just sit there and listen to her talk, he’d be fine. “It’s a little Ukrainian place in the East Village,” he said. 

“As in, Manhattan?” She’d pushed one plate over to him, and then picked up a piece of the sticky treat for herself, took a big bite of the pastry, and covered her mouth so that she could talk around it. “But how—” 

“Made a deal with the delivery guy,” he said. “Can’t get it all the time, but whenever he’s doin’ a run to the city… I, uh… well, when I realized how much you liked it…” 

He trailed off, realizing maybe he’d said more than he should have. She had a weird look on her face, and he started to tense up again. Shit. She was gonna think he was some kinda creep… 

“You’ve been getting it because of… me?” 

“I guess so,” he said, watching her face, worried. She had a few tiny crumbles of sticky walnut bits stuck to the edge of her upper lip. “Is that—” He was fumbling, not knowing if he should apologize, or what. “Uh… sorry.” 

“What’re you sorry for?” she said. “God, this shit is the best. I just wish I’d known sooner, so I could’ve thanked you.” She stopped, made a face of mock outrage. “Wait a sec— Sam… oh my God, that _fuck_ -head. He knew the whole time, didn’t he.” 

Bucky was chuckling at her— everything about her: her tone, her expressions, her easy manner, her gorgeous face… just when he felt like he was tensing up again, she’d relax him, just like that. 

Before he could stop himself, his flesh hand was reaching out, his index finger itching to swipe up that bit of crumble that still clung to her lip. 

“You got a little…” 

She was staring at him as he dabbed it off, her eyes never leaving his, and instead of wiping it on the napkin, he instinctively stuck the finger in his mouth, sucking the little morsel of sweetened nut off the tip. He realized, too late, that it was probably a really weird thing to do. 

Her face had gone slack and she was staring at him. “Fuck, are you doing that on purpose?” she said. She was almost whispering. 

He didn’t know how to answer her question— what she was driving at: was it a good thing, or a bad thing? He just withdrew his hand, putting it in his lap, under the counter, willing himself to behave. He shouldn’t have come here. He was too out-of-practice with this kind of thing. What was he even doing here? For fuck’s sake. 

She held his eyes for a few more seconds and then she grabbed the beer— he hadn’t touched it yet— and took a long swig of it. 

“I’m gonna go change into something more comfy,” she said, setting the bottle down. “I don’t think I can stay in this fancy getup if we’re gonna watch a movie.” 

“Oh,” he said. “Okay.” 

She walked around the counter and headed back to her bedroom, again moving in a shuffle-hop as she favored her good ankle, her party dress making a swishing noise as she went by. “Back in a sec,” she said. 

He would have liked to change clothes too, if they were really going to hang out, but he didn’t want to go back to his apartment— he knew he’d chicken out if he left, that he’d never have the courage to come back. At least his dick was finally calming down. He stood up and shouldered off his jacket, folded it neatly in half, and laid it over the back of the couch, and then scrubbed his hand over his mouth as he turned around slowly to take a look at the place. 

Her apartment was small— a replica of his own, but with a completely different energy, thanks to her decorating, which was a mish-mash of styles and interests, most of it colorful and playful: just like her… cheerful, irreverent… bursting with life. 

He again wondered what he was doing. He didn’t belong here, with his gloomy demeanor and his nerves and his issues. As he contrasted the two energies in his mind— his and hers— he began to lose his nerve again, rapidly… thought of sneaking out while she was still in her bedroom— leaving her a note, telling her he was sorry— 

As a last resort, he pulled out his phone and tapped out a quick text to Sam, and clicked to send it before he could reconsider: 

“ _I’m at her place. She wants to watch a movie_.” 

Sam responded almost immediately: “ _Shit man that could mean anything_.” 

Thanks a lot, Sam. Big help. “ _You think? Fuck I don’t know what I’m doing_.” 

“ _Hang on_ …” 

Bucky didn’t know what he was ‘hanging on’ for, but he waited, counting the seconds, figuring if he made it to sixty with no response from Sam, he’d just take off, try to make up for it the next time he saw her… get her some more baklava… 

His phone chimed. 

“ _Leah’s in total agreement. Could mean she legit wants to watch a movie, could be code for rippin your clothes off. Or both. Or somethin in between. You gotta let her lead_.” 

He typed out his reply, a little pissed off now. “ _You told your girl about this?_ ” 

“ _Naw man. Asked her like a hypothetical thing. She don’t know it’s you_.” 

He was going to ask for Sam’s opinion— whether he should stick around, or get the heck out of there before he ruined everything— when he heard the sound of the doorknob to her bedroom jiggling, and he tapped out an urgent, misspelled “ _Gottta go_ ” and slipped his phone quickly back into his pocket, and then leaned his palms on the back of the couch, trying to look at ease. He was certain he was failing. 

Darcy reappeared, looking smaller somehow in soft grey athletic shorts and a baggy white T-shirt with a faded print of an old-fashioned bicycle on it. 

“Now I feel like a slob,” she said, looking him up and down as he pushed off the back of the couch with his palms. “You’re all pretty still, in your nice clothes.” 

He didn’t know what to say to that, and he looked down, and stuck his hands in his pockets. 

She came right up into his personal space, one of her hands smoothing down his tie and then tugging on it a little. The brief, unexpected contact made his breath stutter, and then he held it, closing his eyes. 

“I’m sorry, should I not—” She’d taken a step back, and when he opened his eyes again he could see that she was looking at him worriedly. “I forget that— I mean, I’m a really touchy-feely kind of person. I forget sometimes that not everybody likes it.” 

He let out a little breath, shaking his head as he looked down again, scuffing his feet a little. “It ain’t that I don’t like it,” he said. 

That one little touch to his chest had almost been enough to set him off again… fuck, it was like a hair-trigger response, at this point. He pulled his hands out of his pockets, dropped his flesh arm down in front of himself, at an angle, and smoothed his metal hand along his flesh forearm, trying to make it look like he was fidgeting, not like he was trying to hide the way his pants were about to get tight again. 

“I should— I should go,” he said, for what felt like the millionth time. 

“Why?” she said, and then she moved in again, and her little hand grabbed onto his metal wrist, just a gentle touch, and he let her do it, dropping his flesh arm back down to his side. 

“I mean, if you really want to go, I won’t stop you,” she said, “but—” 

He’d closed his eyes again. The prosthesis was picking up the sensation of her touch on its hand, on the wrist, and it was almost making him shiver. “I just— I don’t know how to do this anymore,” he said. 

“Don’t sweat it,” she said, as if just by saying it, she could make it so. She was running her hand up his sleeve now, the one on the metal side, slowly… feeling the stiffness of the prosthetic through the woven material. “Is this okay?” she said. “I’m not misreading this, am I?” 

Her other hand reached up, touched his arm on the other side, traveling up in the same way, until both of her hands were on his shoulders. It was like some kind of dream— was he really standing there in her room, practically in her arms? How the fuck had he gotten here? 

She moved in even closer, and he could feel the front of his pants brushing against her now, nudging the softness of her abdomen through the thin T-shirt, and he was sure she could feel it— feel how much he wanted her— and he would have drawn away, embarrassed, but she just pressed in even more, her hands sliding back down his shoulders to his chest, gliding down to his waist, and then she wrapped her arms around his body in a soft hug as she pressed herself fully against him. 

He’d been afraid to touch her— afraid to make any assumptions— but now he let his hands come up, just feathering the soft cotton fabric over her back as his arms moved around her, the metal hand drifting down her spine to rest at the small of her back, while the flesh one moved up to the back of her head, just holding her there gently for a moment before his fingers trailed down through her hair. 

He could feel her breasts pressing against him, and his own chest was expanding visibly with each breath as he tried to rein it in. It was just a hug, but it felt like so much more… 

It was the most intimate thing he’d felt in this new body, the most caring touch he’d experienced in over seventy years. 

“Is this okay?” she asked again, her voice quiet. Her cheek was pressed into his chest, and he tilted his head sideways, dragging his beard against the crown of her head. Everything felt electric, hypersensitive. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t answer her. His breath had become ragged, shaky. 

She turned her head, tilting it up to look at him, concerned when he didn’t respond, maybe reading the wrong thing into the way his body was responding, maybe interpreting it as anxiety— and he supposed it was, in a way… but this wasn’t a feeling he wanted to flee from. He wanted to push it further, test its boundaries… if she’d let him… 

“You all right?” she said, and she looked so beautiful, looking up at him with nothing but care in her eyes. 

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out, just more audible breaths as his eyes moved over her face, his heart pounding, and he felt his flesh hand come up and cup her cheek, feeling the softness of her skin, and her eyes fell shut as she leaned into the touch… 

His thumb was moving on her cheek, and he finally found his voice, though it was barely more than a whisper. 

“Can I… is it okay if—” He cut himself off, frustrated by his own hesitancy, nothing sexy or sensual about it. How could he be so good at this in his mind, and so terrible at it in person? 

She opened her eyes, and they were wide and searching as they gazed up at him, and her hands were smoothing against his back, feeling him through the shirt, and it was a soothing motion, and it grounded him a little, enough to say what he was thinking— to just state it, straight out. 

“I wanna kiss you,” he said, his voice low, his eyes moving back and forth between hers. “Can I kiss you?” 

“Yeah,” she whispered back, her head barely nodding as she stared up at him. “I want you to.” 

His flesh hand was still on the side of her face, and he only hesitated for another second before he leaned down, his thumb still stroking her cheek, just an inch away from her mouth, his nose touching the side of hers, holding there for a split-second, and then finally his lips touched hers… 

It was just a brush at first, just a feeling, and he shivered when he felt her breath against him, not even an inch away, and then his metal hand came up to hold the other side of her face as he committed to it, parting his lips so he could feel the plump fullness of hers between them, exhaling as he gave into it, as good as any climax, the moment he felt her kissing him back… 

He was engulfed by her— her taste, her scent, the feel of her hands threading into his hair, and he let out a moan as the force of it washed over him, and then she intensified it, answering his moan with her own, as her tongue dipped in to taste him… 

He wanted to stay there— stay in that perfect, beautiful moment with her, their lips moving, pulling… hands now everywhere— sliding down shoulders and hips, caressing and tugging… but the reality of the situation came crashing into him all at once, and he pulled back abruptly, panting, his eyelids heavy, and he searched her expression as both of his hands framed her pretty face. 

“What about Steve?” 

She hadn’t been expecting the question— that much was clear by the way her eyebrows knitted together in confusion— but her voice was soft and slow when she answered him, and he was mesmerized by her lips, already thinking about kissing her again, no matter what her answer… 

“What do you mean?” she said. 

And he did, then; he couldn’t help it— he leaned down and kissed her again, hungry for it, his hand running down the side of her neck, the other one at the small of her back, pulling her into him as he savored the honey-soft sweetness of her mouth, and he was feeling a kind of euphoria from it, even as he felt like a bastard for stealing another taste without her permission… 

“I seen you lookin’ at him,” he said, once he’d forced himself to pull back again. "Sam told me— but I know I wasn't misreadin' it the whole time... how you light up when—” It was coming out all disjointed. 

She stopped him right there, covering his lips with her fingertips, and she was smiling at him, her eyes dancing, the fingers of her other hand running up and down his arm, and he never wanted her to stop touching him… 

“Bucky,” she said, and he closed his eyes, just luxuriating in the sound of it— her voice, just like in his fantasy… this beautiful woman, _saying his name_. Touching him. Wanting him. 

“Why would I be here with you,” she said. “Kissing you— if I were interested in Steve?” 

“I don’t know,” he said, feeling stupid, and he shook his head again, and he felt her hands move to his shoulders, and then slide down his front to feel the muscles of his chest through his shirt. 

“I don’t know why you’re kissin’ me,” he said, wanting to be honest. 

She laughed a little then, and he opened his eyes again to look at her. She was still running her hands up and down his chest, and _fuck_ , he hadn’t felt this way for so long— he couldn’t even remember it; it may as well have been the first time… and it felt so good— all of it felt so good, and he wanted to deserve it, wanted to ask her how he could, what he needed to do… 

“Why do you think, dumbass?” she said, and the words were sharp, but her voice was soft. “I like you,” she went on, not waiting for any kind of answer. “Or was my kiss not clear enough?” She bit her lip as her hand stroked the side of his face, felt the scruff of his beard, and then it dropped down to grab onto his necktie, tugging on it gently. “C’mere. Lemme make it clearer, if that’s what you need.” 

She pulled him to her, and he went willingly, and one of her hands went back into his hair while the other one gripped the back of his neck, and this time the kiss was more heated, their tongues tangling together as they gasped and panted into each other, and she was molding her body into him, pressing against him deliberately where he was rock hard, making it obvious that she was aware of his condition, and fuck, his dick was gonna explode, and he broke off once again, still needing to be sure… 

“I think—” 

He was breathing so hard, almost dizzy from the wash of sensation, the swell of emotions, that it was hard to speak. “I think he likes you,” he said. “I mean—” He stopped to kiss her again, pushing her hair back, mouthing at her lips, her cheek, her neck… 

“He said…” He felt like he was holding back a flood, the need to keep kissing her was so great, but he had to say it, had to be sure. “He said you ain’t his type, but I think he’s a goddamn liar.” Both his hands were holding her face again, looking at her, needing to be certain before it went any further… 

“He doesn’t,” she said, shaking her head, and she sounded so sure… 

“How do you know?” His eyes were moving all over her face, and he wanted to kiss her everywhere— peel her clothes away, taste her skin… now that he knew he could— that she wanted him to… 

“I just do,” she said. “Don’t ask me how; I just do.” She bit her lip and then gave him a look that was positively sultry, sending tingles down his spine, and one of his hands slid down to feel the curve of her backside, pulling her closer, and he instinctively rocked his hips into her body, making her lips fall open again in a heated grin. 

“And anyway,” she said, her voice low, “it doesn’t matter, because I wasn’t looking at him; I was looking at you, and I get to decide who I want.” 

Her hand reached down between them, and palmed his trousers, right where they were tented, making him gasp and shut his eyes again, and then she was running her hand over him, and his chest was heaving, overwhelmed by the pleasure of it, and she was still stroking him through his pants when she leaned in to whisper… 

“It’s you, by the way,” she said. “In case it’s still not completely obvious.” She was breathing heavily too, as she continued to work him up, and he was shuddering, wanting to succumb to it, but afraid to lose control… afraid he was gonna come in his pants… 

“I want _you_ ,” she said. 

He grabbed her wrist finally, pulled her hand away as he opened his eyes, and he took a moment to breathe, to come back from the edge… he actually stepped back and shook his head, as though that would help clear it, because he’d been ready to just step off the cliff… to take her into her bedroom and… 

“Don’t you— I mean, shouldn’t I… shouldn’t I a'least take you out on a date, or…” 

She grinned, then, looking up at him mischievously. “You wanna take me out on a date?” she asked. “You wanna stop this? Make some plans? Go get a sandwich or something next week?” 

She was teasing him, because she knew damn well he didn't wanna stop. And he liked that too— liked her teasin' him. Made him even harder, if that was possible. He stepped back a little, felt the arm of the couch behind him, and he sat down on it. 

“I do,” he said, grinning back at her, being totally honest. “I do wanna get a sandwich with you. Next week, tomorrow, the day after that…” 

She was smiling back, more flirty now, both of them having pulled back from the almost runaway heat from before, and she stepped forward, moving into the space between his thighs, and grabbed onto his necktie again, smoothing her hand down it, stroking it just like she’d been stroking his dick not one minute ago… 

“You worried about the three-date-rule or something?” 

“I don’t know what that is,” he admitted, his flesh hand coming up to play with her hair. The metal one moved to her body, dared to smooth down her back to the curve of her ass, pulling her toward him, into the space between his thighs. 

“It’s a thing some people say,” she explained. “About how you know if someone’s gonna be a good match or not. Like, you need three dates to find out. So… people sort of use that as a marker for sex, too. Like, not to sleep with someone ’til the third date. Although now people are saying it’s more like six. Or even eight.” 

“Eight, huh?” Fuck, he didn’t know if he could hold out for eight. He would, though. He’d make himself. 

“What was it back in your day?” she asked. 

“Huh?” he asked. He felt like he was drugged, just watching his fingers looping through her hair. 

“How long did you have to wait? ’Til you could go to bed with someone?” 

He made a scoffing sound. “Til I put a ring on your finger,” he said. 

“Seriously?” she said, and her hands were combing through his hair now, and he felt like a cat being petted into a sleepy trance— hypnotized… laced with an almost unbearable, persistent hum of arousal. 

“Damn,” she said, emphatically. “People ever break that rule?” 

He licked his lips, his eyes moving all over her face. “Occasionally.” His face broke into a full, teasing grin then. “Specially in France.” 

“Oh yeah?” she said, and her hands moved up to the top of the necktie, started to loosen the knot. “When’s the last time you were in France?” 

For the first time that night, she saw a shadow pass over his face, and she kicked herself, wishing she could take the question back. Instead, she just finished loosening the tie, pulling it all the way out of his collar, and then set it aside on the couch. She unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and then moved her hand to his face, feeling the wiry hair of his beard as she looked him in the eye. 

“If this is too fast, we can slow it down. We can put a pin in this. Watch a movie. Go on that date. Go on as many dates as you want. But I’m gonna make it crystal-clear to you, so there’s no doubt in your mind, no way you can fuck with yourself in your own head about it, okay? I want you. Right now. If you want me too, we don’t have to worry about any rules. We can make our own rules, whatever’s right for us. Okay?” 

Bucky was quiet a moment, just breathing in and out, as he processed her words, the weight of them. He wondered if she had any idea how grateful he was, that she’d somehow sensed it— how important it was for him, for things to be clear. For there to be no doubts, no room for him to pick over it later, slip even the tiniest wedge into his recycling of events in his mind, to let the insecurity seep back in and question everything… 

She stepped back as he stood up, and he could see the uncertainty in her face, not knowing what his answer was going to be. He put a few inches in between them, so he could nod down at her ankle— it still had the compression bandage wrapped snugly around it. 

“That gonna hurt?” he asked, hoping she’d get his meaning. His heart was pounding again. 

She grinned then, and bit her lip for a few seconds before responding. “Depends on what you’re gonna do to me,” she said. “You gonna kiss and make it better?” 

“You gonna let me?” 

She finally dropped the grin, her face nothing but raw want. “Oh fuck, yeah.” 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)   
> 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for posting this late! This chapter was a beast to edit.
> 
> I am bumping the story to E, because the characters decided to be more detailed about their fooling around than I'd originally planned. It's probably more of a smutty-M, but rating it E to be safe.
> 
> Also, for some reason, the word 'fuck' appears in its various forms 37 times. Something about Darcy and Bucky in this particular story feeling comfortable and horny together has created a 'fuck' explosion.
> 
> The first 6,000 words are nothing but various levels of smut interwoven with dialogue. If that's not your thing, skip 3/4 down, to the first horizontal rule.
> 
> Thanks to everyone for reading, commenting, leaving kudos, or lurking. You're all wonderful :)
> 
>  

 

 

When Bucky stood up and asked about her ankle, he’d already made up his mind, knowing what he wanted to do. He wanted to rid them both of their clothes— to kiss and touch her all over— but he hadn’t the slight clue how to get started. His eyes raked over her body now, as she prowled toward him, realizing that maybe he didn’t need to worry so much, because Darcy seemed perfectly happy to take the wheel… 

She grabbed onto the hem of her T-shirt with both hands, her arms criss-crossed as she pulled it up over her head, and tossed it aside as she ate up the remaining distance between them. 

She was wearing a bra; she must have changed into it after taking off her party dress. It was a pretty, pale blue, the color of a soft summer sky, picking up the color of her eyes. The fabric was a mix of satin and a delicate, patterned mesh, and the cups, filled to capacity with her gorgeous breasts, teased him with a hint of how she looked underneath, the darker circles of her nipples visible through the fine, translucent material. 

It wasn’t the kind of bra a girl wore for comfort. 

He wanted to touch— to run his hands over those gorgeous curves, to pull the straps down and cup her breasts with his hands, put his mouth on her— but he tried to be patient, to see how she wanted to steer this. He kept his hands off for now, letting them rest on her hips as she moved in close. 

“You’ve got too many clothes on,” she said. 

He could smell the perfume drifting up from her skin as she unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the thin undershirt he had on underneath. She made her way slowly down the placket, working each little button until she reached the bottom, and the two sides fell open. She did the cuffs next, and once she got both sides undone, she pulled the undershirt out of the waistband of his trousers, and then immediately tunneled her hands beneath it. 

He closed his eyes, breathing shallowly as her fingers moved over his bare skin, feeling the planes of his abdomen and then sliding up to his chest, his own fingers curling into her hips as he reveled in the sensation… 

When he opened his eyes, she was looking up at him, and he moved one hand to the back of her neck so he could dip his head down and kiss her, swaying a little as she pulled her hands out of his shirt. She reached up to his shoulders, trying to push the dress shirt off. 

He helped her, pulling his arms out the sleeves, and then threw it aside, and she was already pulling up on the bottom hem of the undershirt, letting him know that she wanted him to take that off, too. 

“Show me your stuff,” she said, her voice husky. “I wanna touch you.” She was tugging up on it, impatient, but he put his hand on her wrist, stopping her. 

“You sure you wanna see?” he asked, warily. 

“What,” she said, looking up at him. “You think I’m gonna change my mind, when I see how hot you are?” 

She licked her lips and started pulling up on the undershirt again. “Anyway,” she said, “I already saw. That one day at the gym. But it was only for a second, and it was too far away. Come on, I wanna see all that yumminess up close and personal.” 

So he did it; he pulled the undershirt up and off— quickly, before he could chicken out— and his heart was pounding as he heard her suck in a sharp breath, taking it all in… 

Her hand lifted… moved toward him… hovered over the mangled seam of his big scar, but she didn’t touch. Her eyes moved to his, briefly, before she spoke. 

“Fuck,” she whispered, as she got a really good look at it, and something in him was relieved that she didn’t minimize it— didn’t pretend it was nothing. “Does it hurt?” 

“No,” he said, his voice quiet, and he moved his flesh hand up to her cheek, touched by her concern, by the care she was taking with him. To his surprise, he wasn’t ashamed, now that she was seeing it. He could tell she wasn’t disgusted; she was just… cautious. For _his_ sake, not hers. 

His chest was moving up and down with his breathing, and he watched as she moved her left hand to the right side of his chest— the normal side— feeling him, running her thumb over his nipple, dragging her fingertips through the sparse scattering of hair above, and then it moved up to his shoulder, smoothing over the muscle and then down, along the full length of his arm until she reached his hand, her fingertips trailing off the end… 

And then she glanced up to his eyes one more time, checking, and then she finally let her right hand come down, softly, carefully, over his heart, near the edge of his marred flesh, resting there a moment, letting him get used to it being there. 

He closed his eyes as it slid its way over, slowly, until he knew she was feeling it: the rippled and ruined skin that ran along the side of the prosthesis. She traced the ragged line of it gently with her fingertips, all the way up to the shoulder, and he opened his eyes in time to watch her as she ran that hand all the way down the metal arm, just as she’d done on the normal side, her face registering awe as some of the plates subtly shifted in the wake of her touch. 

“You’re shakin,” he said, quietly, picking up her hand, and he kissed the fingers on it, one by one. “You don’t gotta be scared of me. I ain’t gonna hurt you.” 

She shook her head. “I’m not scared,” she said, looking up at him, something dark in her eyes. “I’m… _fuck_. I’m… turned on.” 

She picked up his hand— the metal one— and moved it, slowly, to her chest, pressed it into her breast, her hand holding it there against the mesh fabric of the bra, as her eyes moved back to his. 

He was glad she’d done it for him, because he’d needed the permission. The trust she was placing in him— the fact that she’d chosen that hand to touch her first— it was a little overwhelming, and his chin dropped to his chest, his eyes falling shut as he breathed through it. 

He could sense some of it— the shape of her, the give of her flesh— through the sensory input, but he didn’t know if he could make her feel good with it… not the way she wanted… 

He took a step back, taking his hand away from her body, and his thighs bumped into the arm of the couch, and he was glad for the solidity of it, for something to ground him— a reminder that all of it was real: the floor beneath his feet, the static frame of the furniture… their bodies, their breath, touching each other: all real. He needed to stay present… to trust the things she’d told him. So he could make this good for her. _God_ , let him make this good for her. 

“You okay?” she asked. “Did I mess up?” 

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s not you.” He took a careful breath and let it out slowly. “M’sorry,” he said. 

“What for?” she asked, and then she thought for a minute, pressing her lips together. “If it’s too much— if any of this… we can stop any time, seriously—” 

“No,” he said again, not wanting her to misunderstand his apprehension. “God, no— I don’t…” 

He lifted his metal hand, looked at it, wishing he could explain, wishing he were— what? 

And then it hit him all at once: that in his fantasies, he hadn’t had the arm— at least not when he was actually touching her. In the daydream with the skirt, he’d unzipped himself with metal fingers, but he’d transmuted into flesh by the time his hands were touching her skin— his brain seamlessly adjusting as needed. 

It was crazy, that he hadn’t realized it until now: that in his make-believe world, he’d touched her with two normal, flesh hands… made himself whole for her… only now he was seeing that it hadn’t been for her at all: it’d been for himself. 

With that single, shocking admission— that on some level, the prosthesis turned her on— she’d blasted away that assumption. That fear he’d had, that she wouldn’t want it near her. That she’d be scared or disgusted. It was a revelation his brain still needed to catch up with… 

“Talk to me,” she said. “What’s going through your mind?” 

He didn’t know how to put it into words— there were too many paths, too many things weaving together: his desire for her… his irrational fears… the disconnect between his fantasies, and what he was able to do here, now… 

“M’sorry,” he said again. “I was so much better at this in my— in my own head.” He furrowed his brow. “Don’t know if I’m rememberin’ how I used to be, or if I’m just makin’ it all up…” 

He was afraid he’d ruined the mood, but she closed the distance between them again, moving both of her palms to his bare chest, restoring that connection between them, and it helped, almost instantly. Like the arm of the couch— real, grounding him— and he felt his hands move back to her hips in response. 

“Does it matter?” she asked. “I mean, as long as you wanna be here… I’m not, like… keeping score or anything.” And then she grinned as she twirled one of her fingers in his chest hair… 

“So you were good at this in your head, huh?” she continued. “You been having naughty thoughts about me, Mr. Barnes?” 

He couldn’t help smiling at her question, and the way she’d phrased it. He shut his eyes and decided to be honest. 

“Doll, you got no idea.” 

He opened up again to look at her, and he grinned even wider when he saw her face, because she looked so _pleased_ by his confession, and he relaxed, and even chuckled a little, and just like that, she’d made everything good again… 

“Thought I was gonna have to start goin’ to church again,” he said, “what with all the sinnin’ I been doin’…” 

“Well,” she said, watching her own fingers trace patterns on his chest, “how does that saying go? ‘If you can _think_ it’…” 

She leaned in close, pressed a soft kiss to his chest, making him sigh, and he pulled her closer, felt the tips of her breasts brushing against him, and he really wanted to get that bra off… see her, touch her, taste her skin… 

“So what were we doing?” she asked then, looking up at him coyly. “When you were… _thinking_ about us.” 

He chuckled again. “You’re sayin’ that like there was only one story…” 

And then he sucked in a breath, as one of her hands moved in between, ghosted over the front of his pants— just a whisper of a touch, a tease this time— and then she moved up and undid the single button on the waistband of his trousers, and then slid her fingers over to undo the hook from the metal-bar closure beneath, and he wanted her to keep going… wanted to feel her hand on him… 

She stopped short of unzipping him, looking up into his eyes again, and he could see her take in the tiniest breath, as though she wanted to say something, but then, just as quickly, she seemed to change her mind. 

“So tell me your favorite,” she said. “Your favorite one.” 

“You really wanna know?” he asked. His flesh hand had moved up to her shoulder, moving her hair back, out of the way, and then his fingers slid down to feel the strap of her bra— a silky blue line, laying against her skin, and his thumb followed it, just gliding slowly down the fabric, and then back up again. 

“You were wearin’ that red skirt,” he finally said, finding the words. 

He didn’t know why, but it was helping: being able to talk like this, like they were just having a conversation, while he got used it, being there with her like this, being allowed to touch her. He slipped two of his fingers underneath the strap, pulled it slowly to the side, off her shoulder, and he stared for a moment… stared at that little bit of flesh he’d revealed, like it was something intimate… and then he pulled her closer with his left arm, his hand splayed against the small of her back, and leaned down to kiss her there, on the slight dent in her skin, faintly pink, where the strap had been digging in, and he could both feel and hear her respond to it… 

“Which red skirt?” she whispered, as he brushed his lips against her skin. 

He was kissing his way slowly up the slope of her shoulder to her neck, and her breath was picking up… 

She tipped her chin up so he could keep going, and he paused— could feel the soft thrum of her heart, there in that vulnerable spot on her neck, pulsing beneath his parted lips. 

“The one from the break room,” he said, and then he kissed her there, opened-mouthed, a little wet. “That day Steve was helpin’ you look for those dishes.” He continued up, smoothing her hair away so he could put his lips on the skin right behind her ear. “The rama— ram— whatever.” 

“Ramekins,” she breathed, like it was a dirty word, as he kissed his way from the sharp corner of her jaw over to her mouth, and she was starting to feel the passion there, all of the heat simmering just below his insecurity, and she was burning with anticipation for how it was gonna feel when he finally let go completely. She knew they would get there… that at some point he’d hit his stride, and… 

“That was the— the day I made the— the dish avalanche,” she said. 

His lips had left her mouth and were working down her neck again, and his hands were sliding up her waist, getting closer to her breasts… 

“Sorry about that, by the way,” she said. “I felt so bad for…” 

His hands were just under her breasts now, almost-but-not-quite cupping them, and he was kissing the swells of flesh just about the bra, exhaling heavily in between each press of his lips, and he stopped for a moment, looked up at her, licking his lips. 

“Ain’t your fault,” he said. “It happens sometimes. I get startled.” 

“So,” she said, looking into his eyes. “Red skirt. What else?” 

She’d never talked this much while making out with someone, and it was kind of strange, but it wasn’t… bad. If anything, she was starting to see the appeal of it— of not having that divide between mind and body, of having to war with _what ifs_ in the thinking part of your head, while the horny part took over… 

With other partners, she’d often felt they were both just walking through the steps in a play: the motions already pre-determined, and they the actors, carrying out their roles… 

There wasn’t any acting going on here. Even though some of it was awkward, there was an intensity in being so present— in staying connected… talking their way through it as they touched one another, instead of how it usually went: retreating away in her own mind even as her body was awash in sensation… 

He leaned himself fully onto the arm of the couch, sitting on it, pulling her with him, slotting her between his thighs, and his flesh hand smoothed its way up to her breast, finally daring to feel it, and he watched himself touch her, watched his hand trace and caress her shape, and she could feel herself getting wet, responding to the gentle touch… 

“Had you up against the counter,” he said. “Cagin’ you in. Feelin’ you with my hands… You, uh... you weren't wearin' nothin' underneath...” 

He wasn’t towering over her anymore, now that he was sitting, and she put her hands on his face, felt the wiry hair of his beard, and she kissed him… slowly, softly, and he let go of her breast to move his arms around her, hold her, his hands moving up to cradle the back of her head as they moved their mouths together. 

“Was I facing you?” she said, when they broke apart to breathe. “Or were we… was I—” 

“Your ass was pressin' on my dick.” Even as he said the words, his hands were moving down to the curve of her ass, smoothing circles around the gorgeous full roundness of it, and then he squeezed it a little with both hands, grinning when her mouth fell open a little more, her eyelids getting heavier… 

“Mmm, that’s hot,” she said. “I approve. What else did you do?” 

“What were you gonna say before?” he asked suddenly, instead of answering her question. 

“Huh?” She was running her hands along his trousers, where his legs were spread in a V around her. 

“You were gonna say somethin’. And then you stopped yourself… started talkin’ about my dirty old mind, instead…” 

“It’s not dirty,” she said, even though she knew he was teasing, at least a little bit. “I like it. I like that you were thinking about me.” She grinned, biting her lip. “I’ve been thinkin’ about you too, you know.” She was still feeling his legs, watching her own hand as it ran up and down the fabric of his trousers. “God, you’ve got nice thighs,” she said, like she’d only just noticed. 

He’d dipped his head back down to kiss the tops of her breasts, his hands moving to her back, supporting her, and then his mouth went lower, getting bolder, kissing her through the bra, and she moaned as a flood of heat and moisture pooled between her legs. 

“You’re… _ahhh_ … you’re pretty perceptive, huh,” she said, through a heavy breath. He sucked and pulled on her nipple through the fabric, and then let it go as he drew back, moving his flesh hand back to her breast, feeling the hardened bud with his thumb as he answered her. 

“I dunno,” he said. “I’m okay in the field. Things make sense. But most stuff…” He paused, pulled down on the cup of the bra, nudging her breast out, and he sighed as he looked at it, and then he dipped back down to kiss it, breathing heavily, and ran his tongue across her nipple. 

“Stuff like this,” he said. “Talkin’ to people… social cues… I’m pretty much a— a bonehead. Outa practice.” 

It was hilarious, his saying that, even as his mouth was on her bare breast, his tongue now circling her nipple, and she shuddered out another moan, her body arching into it, her fingers curling into his thigh, and he finally took her entire areola in his mouth, pulling on her nipple, his own breath becoming ragged as he surrendered to it, nothing shy about the way he was working her now… 

He said he was out of practice, but the way he was drawing it out, teasing her— maybe not intentionally, but still… it was a welcome change from the awkward and inept fumblings of previous partners, most of whom seemed to think that thirty seconds of semi-dry fingering counted as foreplay. 

Bucky was making her a sopping mess, and he hadn’t even gotten into her pants yet… 

“I like what you’re doing,” she said, in a whisper. “Everything you’re doing. Nothing… _ah_ … nothing boneheaded about it…” 

He pulled his mouth away from her nipple so that he could lift the other breast out, freeing it from the cup, and he said, “Still thought you were holdin’ a candle for Steve, up until about twenty minutes ago.” He leaned down to gently kiss the other breast, and then he said, “You tellin’ me that ain’t dense?” 

“Yeah, well…” She finally reached around behind her back, unhooked her bra and pulled it off, tossing it aside, and he looked up at her face for a moment, his pupils blown wide, and then he dove back in, treating her breasts like they were God’s gift to Bucky Barnes, using his hands, his lips, his tongue— nothing short of worship, and she happily accepted it, plunging her hands into his hair, scraping her nails against his scalp… 

“Maybe… maybe I was a little unsure myself,” she admitted. She squeezed her thighs together, thinking they should probably move it to the bedroom soon. God, she was already soaked. “Didn’t know if you’d be interested in a girl like me.” 

“Girl like you—” He lifted his head, to look at her again, a question in his voice. 

“Yeah,” she said. “You know: short, round, athletically challenged…” Then she laughed a little. “Clumsy as fuck.” 

“You’re perfect,” he said, looking right in her eyes, and she could see that he meant it. “Christ, I been fantasizin’ about you for weeks.” He put his hand on the back of her neck, pulling her face into him, kissing her deeply, his tongue bolder now, like his work on her breasts had woken it up, reminded him what it could do… 

“So how’s the real thing,” she asked, not caring how needy it sounded. “Am I living up to all those dirty thoughts?” 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he said. “There ain’t no comparison. Nothin’ could even come close to this— to bein’ here with you… touchin’ you for real…” He kissed her again and said, “Feel like I could die happy now.” 

She chuckled and said, “I think we can do better than that.” She stepped back from him a little, and her heart clenched at how bereft he looked from the sudden loss of her warmth. “Pick me up, so I don’t have to limp.” 

He obeyed, standing up to lift her, her bare breasts pressing into his chest as her legs wrapped around him. 

She kissed him on the lips, once, and then pulled back to look into his eyes. “Now take me to bed.” 

He carried her easily as she clung to him, her fingers combing through his hair, for the three seconds it took to get to her bedroom door. It was pulled almost all the way shut, and he used his foot to kick it open. 

Her room was small and messy: dirty clothes strewn on the floor, an old-fashioned record player on the dresser, stacks of records and magazines and other odds-and-ends on every other flat surface expect for the bed, which took up most of the space in the room. He could see her party dress hanging up on the closet door— probably the only clothing she hadn’t thrown on the floor. There were little strings of tiny, golden lights hanging up like garlands from the crown molding, all the way around the room, making it feel somehow enchanted and intimate, in spite of the clutter. 

“You always have it like this?” he asked, looking around. 

She didn’t know if he meant the mess, or the strings of light, or what, but she just said, “Only when I’m trying to seduce super-soldiers.” She winced a little inside then, seeing it all through his eyes. “It probably looks like a teenager lives in here, but I promise: I’m a grown-ass woman.” 

“Yeah, I noticed,” he said, smirking, and he set her down gently on the floor, next to the bed, mindful of her bad ankle. 

“Take off your pants,” she said, as she pushed off her knit shorts, her bare boobs jiggling. She seemed completely at ease, standing there half-naked with him in her bedroom, and it just made him all the more enchanted by her, eager to get his hands back on her, now that he’d gotten a real taste.

Her panties were a match for the blue bra that she’d already discarded; this time the peekaboo mesh gave him a hint of the little patch of dark hair between her legs, and he swallowed as his eyes moved over her. 

He unzipped the dress trousers and shoved them down his legs, glad to be rid of them. 

“Socks too,” she said, while he was bent over. “Don’t need your dress-socks ruining the effect.” 

“What effect,” he said, as he pulled them off. 

“Your dazzling hotness,” she said, grinning as she sat down on the edge of the bed, watching him undress, but her smile fell into something slack as he stood back up and she could see his full body— a pair of heather-gray boxer briefs now the only thing standing in the way of his being completely nude. She’d left her panties on, so he’d left his underwear on too, unsure if she’d want to see him… 

“Jesus Christ, Bucky,” she said, her eyes raking down the length of him, taking in the full impact of his physique. “Work out much? Fuck. Get over here.” 

He’d no sooner joined her on the bed than she was rolling onto her back, pulling him on top of her, her legs falling open to make room for him, and he laughed a little because it was a relief, the way she didn’t even ease into it: just made it clear that she wanted him, and she wanted him _right now_ … and then everything sped up, even as all of it felt dreamy, his hands moving over her body as he kissed her, and he could feel her fingers moving on his back, tracing the muscles, and then sliding down to the curve of his ass, curling into it, and _fuck_ he was hard… 

He slid down her body a little so he could kiss and suck on her breasts again, feeling like he could never get enough of them, and he could hear by her breathing, and the little sounds she was making, that she liked it— liked what he was doing, how he was making her feel. 

She rolled them a little, so they were almost side-by-side, their bare legs twining together, and she found his flesh hand, grabbed it and moved it between her legs, asking him to touch her there, and he broke off kissing her to look down at it— at his own hand, as he moved it against the damp fabric of her panties. She was rocking against him, asking for more, needing him, and without thinking, he pushed the little scrap of fabric aside so he could slip his fingers beneath, finding the cut of her body so he could stroke her open, feeling her silky wetness, and he sagged against her a little when he felt it… 

“Fuck,” he said. “Fuck, you’re so beautiful…” 

And it was just like when he was tying the tie— his fingers remembering what to do, even if his conscious mind didn’t— and his soft caresses, up and down, and the gentle strokes as he dipped inside, were making her breath come even quicker, her moans loader, more appreciative, and he wanted to rip off his briefs, fit himself into that beautiful warmth, disappear inside of her… 

He tried to slow down, kissing her deeply as the heel of his palm pressed against her body, making her moan and push back against him, and he could feel how badly she needed him… 

“I don’t…” He was struggling to say it, because he’d realized… “I don’t have any… I mean, I never expected…” 

Her answer was just as disjointed, as his fingers started moving again, slowly, drawing her pleasure out… 

“That’s what… what I was gonna say before— I didn’t wanna… didn’t wanna have to…” 

She laughed a little, and it sounded so pretty, and he pulled his fingers out, slid down even further, all the way down, acting on instinct now, and he pushed her legs open with his hands and then he was mouthing at her pretty little pussy, the panties still slightly askew, and as he ran his lips over the fabric, brushing against her body where it was exposed, he was hit with the salty musk of her, and it unleashed something inside him, ridding him of any lingering hesitation. 

“This okay?” he said, as he pulled her panties aside, and he licked a line right up her center, making her moan and arch against him. “Fuck, sweetheart, you smell so good…” 

She tried to respond, as he licked at her again, his metal hand on her thigh, the flesh one still pushing the panties aside so he could bury his face in her, and she could feel everything: his hot breath, the wet swipe of his tongue, his lips— so soft, in between the prickle of his beard... 

“ _Fuck_ ,” she moaned, trying to answer him, almost laughing a little even as she was quickly being rendered into a writhing pile of goo. “Holy shit, Bucky— I guess you hit your stride…” 

“Huh?” he said, not understanding, and he kissed her one more time and then said, “Lift up,” and he pulled the panties down and off, when she lifted up her butt for him. “What’d you say?” 

“Nothing,” she said raggedly, as he pushed her legs back open and put his mouth right back on her, nothing in the way now. His tongue was warm and wet, and she could feel the scrape of his beard against her inner thighs… “Just something I was thinking about earlier… never mind… _fuck_ , you’ve got a nice mouth…” 

And then her brain caught up, heard what he’d said earlier, about not having anything— that he’d come unprepared— and she realized that maybe that was why he was trying to get her off like this, thinking he wouldn’t be able to do anything more. 

“I didn’t wanna… didn’t wanna have to slam on the brakes for… ah _fuck_ …” She was trying to restrain herself, trying not to mash her crotch into his face. “A Q&A, right when things got really good…” 

_Things’re already real good_ , he thought, as he languidly sucked on her lips, and then he realized that’s exactly what she’d meant— that she hadn’t wanted to stop this, once it got started, to have some kind of discussion… 

“I’ve got some condoms,” she was saying. “ _Fuck_ … if you wanna wear one… _ahhh_ … but I just wanted to let you know that… _ah_ — that you don’t have to, as long as you’ve got a— a clean bill of health… _ahhh, fuck… Bucky… God, that feels good_ …” 

He’d been completely lost in her, bathing in the scent of her body, the feel of her warm, soft flesh under his tongue, the taste of her in his mouth, but he managed to pull back just a little, tried to figure out what she was saying, because it sounded important. 

“You uh… what?” He looked up at her, licking his lips, and she was smiling at him— he probably looked wrecked— and _fuck_ he was happy… 

“You, uh… you don’t have to wear anything,” she said, her hips undulating involuntarily, missing the feel of his mouth. “Unless you’re like… packing some super-STD or something. I’ve got an IUD, and I’m clean, so…” 

“I don’t know what that is,” he said, and he bent down to kiss her again— just one soft little kiss, like a tease. 

“See,” she said, almost shuddering as her hips arched up shamelessly, seeking him out. “This is totally what I was hoping to avoid. Wanted to… to get it out of the way, but I didn’t wanna seem like a weirdo, bringing it up too early…” 

He lay back down, his metal arm wrapping around her thigh, holding her open, and he said, “Bring what up?” and then he got back to work, taking it slower, savoring it, loving the sound of her sighs as he laved at her open body. 

“Keep talkin’,” he said. “I’m listenin’, I promise… just can’t keep my mouth offa you…” 

“The IUD is a— _oh fuck_ … it’s a— a thing inside me, that’ll… _ahhhhh_ … keep me from getting…” She blew out a long breath as her thighs started to shake, and she gave up. “Ah, fuck it. Just tell me you’re clean, and we’re good,” she said, and she was almost trying to pull back from him now, because he was really getting her there, and she didn’t want to— not yet… 

“Fucking _hell_ , Bucky… where’d you learn to…” 

“Already told you,” he said, his voice a little cheeky now, maybe a little proud. “France.” And then he rested his head against her inner thigh, taking a break. “It’s weird, the things I can remember…” 

“Well,” she said, her hand moving down to pet him, her fingers running through his hair, “whoever taught you how to please a girl deserves a fuckin’ medal.” She started laughing, then— for real, not just a little chuckle. 

“What’s so funny,” he said, and he moved up a bit, kissing her belly, and then a bit more, to kiss each of her breasts, pulling each nipple in its turn into his mouth, bringing them back up to hard little peaks, and he stopped when she started laughing again, her whole body jiggling. 

“Sorry,” she said, and then she crumbled into the giggles again. “Just imagining someone getting the Legion of Honor for eating pussy…” 

"Wouldn't that be the teacher gettin' the medal?" he teased.

"You _both_ deserve a medal," she said, meaning it. "But you should give me the name of your teacher, so I can write her a thank-you letter."

He was up by her face now, and he was smiling at her, a full, genuine smile, and it was beautiful… 

“God, you're somethin’ else,” he said, and he wiped his face on his shoulder, and then he kissed her on the lips, and she could taste herself on his tongue… 

“You never— you never answered the question,” she whispered, when he pulled back, and his hand had trailed back down between her legs, where she was aching and needy, and he slipped two fingers inside her as stared into her eyes. 

“What question was that?” he asked, and then he kissed her again, and there was a little sass there— the way he asked it while he stroked her, like he knew he was making it hard for her to think, and she loved it: loved seeing him unleashed, confident, but she still needed an answer… 

“If— if you’re… _please_ , Bucky…” 

He had mercy on her, letting his fingers slip out, finally giving her his full attention, and even though she’d needed to finish this conversation, it was almost painful, the loss of sensation, the need to be filled up by him again. 

“If you’re askin’ me if I got any diseases,” he said, pausing to kiss her again, “I don’t.” 

“Awesome,” she whispered, letting out a sigh of relief, feeling like a writhing mess, and her next request sounded more like she was begging. “Then please, for _fuck’s sake_ … lose the underwear.” 

He kissed her one more time, and there was something a little filthy about it, and then he grinned and rolled to the side long enough to push his briefs off, and she only got a glimpse of him— the dark body hair, the stiff length of his gorgeous cock— before he was crawling over her again, pushing her legs apart with his knees. 

He leaned down to kiss her again, trying not to let his dick brush against her, but she threaded her hand down between their bodies and grabbed on right away, stroking him with just the right combination of strong and sweet, watching as his eyes fell shut, his jaw shuddering a little from her touch, and it felt a little bit like revenge, after what he’d put her through… 

“Fuck, this is really happening, isn’t it,” he said, and she pulled on him a couple more times, ran her thumb across the tip, and then wiggled herself down a little, canting her hips as she tried to line him up. 

“It totally is,” she said, and then she was rubbing the head of his dick against her wetness, and he shut his eyes again, clenching his jaw, trying to stay in control, trying to keep his hips from just plunging into her, involuntarily. 

“And it’s gonna keep _on_ happening, if you want it to,” she said. “But I need you in me now. Like, immediately. You almost made me come about three times already, and I’ve been touching myself to this exact fantasy for over a month, and if I have to wait any longer to feel you inside of me, I’m gonna fucking die.” 

His voice was a low rumble as he responded to that thoroughly inspiring speech: 

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.” 

He reached down and grabbed onto himself, taking over, and he pushed forward with his hips, dipping inside, and he pulled back a little, feeling her wetness coat him, and then he pushed back in, twice more like that, until he was all the way in, his body pressed up against her, and he heard her let out a long, vocalized sigh, like she was deeply relieved, and her legs wrapped completely around him, holding him there like a captive, and he was almost shaking from the feel of it— her warm, wet heat surrounding him, suffocating him with a pleasure so intense he almost couldn’t breathe… 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he whispered, wishing he could be more eloquent, have something better to say, for a feeling so beautiful, but she just grinned when she heard it, not minding his crudity at all, and she rocked her hips, gripping him inside, and he breathed out slowly, came back to himself, and then he finally began to move— slowly at first, and then in earnest, and he said it again: “ _Fuck_ …” 

And he was so lost in it, the pure joy of driving into her, her heels pulling against him, urging him on, that he almost missed her dreamy, whispered reply: 

“ _My sentiments exactly_.” 

* * *

They were lying on their backs, side-by-side, covered in sweat, completely fucked out, and he knew he was grinning a sleepy, shit-faced grin, but it fell a little when he had a sudden thought: 

“What are we gonna tell Steve?” 

She breathed out a soft laugh as she rolled into him, slinging a sticky leg over his thigh. “What’re you talking about? Thought we already covered this. I like _you_ , not Steve. I mean, if all of _that_ didn’t convince you, I don’t know what—” 

“No,” he said, chuckling as he stroked her arm with his metal hand. “I mean… look: I know you say he ain’t interested in you, but I’m tellin’ you… I seen the way he jumps up to help you every time—” 

“Every time I do something klutzy?” 

“Well, yeah.” He exhaled. “He don’t do that kinda thing for _everyone_. He makes a special effort for you. He likes you.” 

He felt her sigh against his chest, snuggling further into his body, and then she turned her head, so that her chin was digging into his sternum. 

“Ow,” he said, but he was grinning down at her playfully as he said it, not caring in the slightest that the sharp point of her chin was impaling him. 

“Okay, here’s the deal,” she said, and then she raised one eyebrow at him sternly. “But you gotta _promise_ me you’ll keep your lips zipped on this.” 

“Course,” he said. “Whatever you say, doll.” 

She oozed up to give him one soft kiss on the lips before she continued. “Okay,” she repeated. “The thing is…” She paused, hesitating, and then she rushed on, saying it all at once. “Steve’s been screwing Sharon Carter for over three months. They’ve been keeping it on the down-low, because they didn’t wanna make it awkward for work… and also just ‘cause, you know, they thought maybe people would think it was… weird.” 

He thought about it, as he lay there, staring blankly across the room… thought back to the coy, evasive conversations… to Steve’s casual fishing for opinions about Carter… 

“That little shit,” he finally said, but he was grinning. “What a fuckin’ liar.” 

“Joke’s on you guys,” she said, giggling against his chest. “You and Sam. I take it this whole time you guys’ve been thinking he’s some kinda clueless celibate, afraid to ask out a girl or whatever.” 

“I mean, I knew he weren’t no blushin’ virgin, but…” Bucky shook his head. Steve really had been telling the truth, the whole time: Darcy wasn’t his type. “How’d you find out, anyway, if it’s such a big fuckin’ secret?” 

“Oh, man,” she said. “Okay. It wasn’t by choice; that’s for sure. I kinda-sorta… caught them. In a, uh…compromising situation. In the supply closet.” 

Bucky burst out laughing, then, and she giggled along with him, because yeah— it was funny. Such a fucking cliché. But there was more to it than that— more to the feeling driving the laughter; in truth, he was just really fucking happy. Delirious. Because it was finally sinking in now: that he was really lying there naked with Darcy, totally comfortable, and she wanted him, and now he knew there wasn’t gonna be any trouble with Steve— no hard feelings, nothing awkward to sort out. And if he could believe what she’d said— and he did— this wasn’t just a one-time thing. It was just the beginning. 

“I _really_ don’t wanna go into the details,” she was saying. “Let’s just say it was an… _advanced_ position.” 

He rolled them over so that he was above her again, and he kissed her with complete abandon, his hand holding her face, like she was precious, like she was everything. Like he was in love. 

And then he thought about her words— the ‘ _advanced position_ ’— and he chuckled again as he smoothed her sweaty hair away from her face. 

“You sure we’re talkin’ about the same Steve Rogers?” he asked. 

“Hand to my fucking heart,” she said, gazing up at him with mirth. 

“In the supply closet.” 

“In the supply closet,” she repeated, solemnly. 

“Fuck,” he said, falling over onto his back again. “Well, I gotta hand it to the punk— he pulled one over on me; that’s for sure. We had no fuckin’ clue. ‘Least, I didn’t. Shit. You know, I bet Sam knows. That guy’s a fuckin’ magician or somethin’.” 

She lifted up her head then, looking at him with that stern face again, and it was adorable. God, he might be in love with this girl. Fuck— _might_ be? He was. He was in love… and it felt amazing. 

“You _cannot_ let on that you know,” she was saying. “To anyone. You gotta let him tell you himself.” 

“I can do that,” he said. “Though I gotta say, I’m pretty pissed off that he didn’t set me straight, seein’ as how fuckin’ tortured I been, watchin’ you from afar all these weeks, bein’ jealous.” 

“Maybe he tried,” she said. 

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I can be a stubborn bastard…” 

“I’m not gonna argue with that,” she said. “Even my Daisy Dukes didn’t work on you.” 

“Oh, they worked,” he said, making her giggle, and then he looked at her mischievously, his blue eyes sparkling. “We got a lotta lost time to make up for, babydoll.” 

“Oh yeah?” she said, grinning as she sat up. She climbed on top, slinging one leg all the way over his body so that she was straddling him, her butt resting on his thick thighs, just below his dick. His big hands smoothed their way down her waist to the wide flare of her hips, his eyes taking in everything: her big, gorgeous breasts; her flushed, happy face as she gazed down at him; her beautiful brown hair, all mussed up from what they’d already done to each other, and some primal part of him said, ‘ _mine_ ’, and he wanted to do it again… 

His dick seemed to be in agreement… 

“I am _totally_ on board for that,” she was saying, wagging her eyebrows. 

She looked down at his dick, grabbing it at the base, so that it was standing proudly at attention, and said, “If you say ‘ _all aboard_ ’ right now, I’m gonna marry you.” 

He bit his lip in a grin as he pulsed his hips up. 

“That a promise?” 

She just grinned back in answer, her hips wiggling a little, in anticipation… 

“Well,” he said, “in that case…” 

* * *

“Keep it down over there, children, or you’re gonna get kicked out,” said Nat, and they knew she meant it. She hated people talking over the dialogue, especially when it was her night to choose. 

“Yeah,” said Steve, trying to sound grumpy. “Knock it off.” Steve was her ally, having never seen the film before; it was a comedy, and he was trying not to miss any of the jokes. 

Darcy and Bucky had only been seeing each other for a couple of weeks, but they were already insufferable— driving everyone crazy with their adorable pet-names and never-ending PDAs, to the point that people actually groaned when they entered a room together. It was just disgusting, seeing two people so deliriously happy. 

They were trying to behave now— to be quiet, so that the others could enjoy the movie. Nat had picked Some Like it Hot, for ‘reasons’. Everyone knew those reasons had a lot to do with Marilyn Monroe’s boobs, but it wasn’t like anyone was complaining. 

Darcy was sitting in Bucky’s lap on the couch, and they were feeding each other popcorn in between tender kisses, and gazing into each other’s eyes like they were under some kind of love spell. Then Bucky whispered something into her ear, and she chortled loudly, unable to help herself, and she pressed her lips together, stifling it down with barely-suppressed snorts when Nat and Steve both turned to glare… 

She managed to keep it together for another fifteen minutes, but then, seemingly out of the blue, she collapsed into paroxysms of poorly-restrained laughter, falling out of Bucky’s lap and bumping into Sam, spilling popcorn everywhere. 

Her reaction made no sense, because it wasn’t even one of the funny lines: just the station master calling out ‘ _All aboard_ ,’ as Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon, done-up in drag, rushed to get to their train. Bucky was snickering too, and then the station master said it again, and Darcy literally fell off the couch laughing, unable to contain it any longer. 

“You guys wanna share with the rest of the class?” droned Barton. 

“Quiet,” said Nat. “Don’t encourage them.” 

“Sorry; I’m sorry,” said Darcy from the floor, shuddering in a breath, trying to get it together, but it only lasted a second before she was laughing again, while Bucky tried to pick up all the popcorn she’d spilled. He was still fighting his own giggles, and as much as Steve liked seeing it— seeing his friend so happy— he was irritated, because he didn’t understand what was so goddamned funny. 

“I miss something?” he said, and it just made them laugh harder. 

“ _Shhh_ ,” said Nat. 

“Seriously,” he pressed. “What’d I miss?” He was sick of getting ribbed for not picking up on references and innuendos, but he was confused because nobody else was laughing— just Darcy and Buck. Darcy was still on the floor, stuck on her back, writhing like an overturned beetle, unable to right herself, convulsing in a fresh bout of laughter. 

“You’re not makin’ fun of me or somethin’, are you?” 

“Shut it,” said Nat. “Watch the movie.” 

Bucky was wiping his eyes, trying to get a hold of himself. “It ain’t—” He was struggling to speak. “It ain’t even remotely about you, Stevie,” he finally said, and for some reason that made Darcy laugh even harder. 

“ _Seriously_ ,” said Nat, looking over at them with murder in her eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” Darcy said again, gasping, and then she gave up, rolled over onto all fours, and started crawling her way out of the room with tears running down her face. 

Bucky pushed himself up from the couch, grinning widely when Darcy shrieked as he scooped her up, and then he slung her over his shoulder, and carried her out of the room, much to everyone’s relief. 

They could still hear the two of them laughing, out of sight, all the way down the hall by the elevators, and Steve could’ve sworn he heard Darcy say, ' _All aboard_ ' again, followed by more snorts and snickers, and then they heard the _ding_ of the elevator arriving to pick them up, and then all was finally quiet once again, except for the sound of the movie. 

“Why’s everyone actin’ so goddamned weird lately,” said Steve, quietly, and then winced when Nat elbowed him hard in the ribs, her eyes never leaving the screen. 

“It ain’t weird,” said Sam. “Those two’re in love.” 

“Yeah,” said Steve softly, a little smile on his face. “They are, aren’t they.” 

“I will _end_ you,” said Natasha, fiercely, and everyone finally shut up, and Barton passed the big bowl of popcorn down the line, and they all went back to watching the movie. 

When Steve’s phone beeped twenty-two minutes later, and he looked at it and then apologetically pushed up off the couch and excused himself, whispering, “Sorry, I need to get this,” the rest of them let him go, expressionless, only snickering once they heard the elevator doors close down the hall. 

“How many days is that?” said Barton. 

“One hundred fourteen,” said Nat, never taking her eyes off the screen. 

“Shit,” said Sam. “Barnes’s gotta be the only one left who doesn’t—” 

“He knows,” said Nat, interrupting him. “Darcy must’ve told him.” 

“How do you—” 

“He averted his eyes, when Carter came into the conference room last week.” 

“Huh,” said Sam, impressed. “Maybe someone oughta tell Steve, seein’ as how everybody in the entire goddamn compound knows.” 

Nat was quiet as she stared at the screen. Marilyn was singing, and she looked beautiful: soft and sad and lovely— luminous. A life already long gone, but preserved there, eternal. 

She smiled for a second as she thought of Steve, sneaking off for a booty call somewhere in the sub-basement, thinking he was fooling them all. 

“Nah,” she said. “Let him have his fun.” 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)   
> 


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